


The oldest, yet the latest thing

by sagestreet



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: 1920s, Developing Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Slow Build, Slow Burn, World War I, defensively heterosexual Jimmy Kent, post Christmas Special 2012, sexual identity crisis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2017-12-21 13:48:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 72,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/901016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagestreet/pseuds/sagestreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jimmy has a secret. Thomas is lonely. A sudden rain shower and an umbrella might change both those things …</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally posted on livejournal (with slightly better-spaced formatting). For masterpost go to: http://sagestreet.livejournal.com/

 

 **Title:** The oldest, yet the latest thing

 **Author:** [sagestreet](http://sagestreet.livejournal.com/)

 **Fandom:** Downton Abbey

 **Pairing:** (eventual) Thomas Barrow/Jimmy Kent; (past) Thomas Barrow/Edward Courtenay

 **Rating:** NC-17 (overall)

 **Spoilers:** set post Christmas Special 2012

 **Warnings:** explicit sexual situations; references to the Great War; period-specific homophobia, misogyny and outdated concepts of gender roles (all of which the author explicitly _doesn’t_ subscribe to); probably some strong language thrown in for good measure

 

 **Summary:** _Jimmy has a secret. Thomas is lonely. A sudden rain shower and an umbrella might change both those things_ …

(This book cover was created by [catthetamedshrew](http://catthetamedshrew.tumblr.com/).)

 

Soundtrack: Al Bowlly “[ _Love is the Sweetest Thing_](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hUXv0ezazXg)” (1932)

 

**The oldest, yet the latest thing**

 

It all starts with a telegram – the way these things tend to do.

 

The way a bleeding cut starts with a razor breaking the skin. The way a record starts with a crackling sound when you place the needle on it. The way a cricket match starts with the umpire yelling, “Play.”

 

It starts with a telegram. But that doesn't happen until later.

 

Not until after winter has started to slowly eat away at what little cheerfulness a house of mourning such as theirs has managed to regain over Christmas. Not until after a seemingly endless, dark and rainy January has given way to an equally rainy February, that tears the last vestiges of their morale to shreds, clawing away at their nerves.

 

It all starts later. Much later.

 

For now, all that Jimmy can think about is Mr Barrow’s pensive face. Ever since the man has received the news of his father’s death, he has been unusually quiet, not exactly sad probably, but certainly in a brooding mood.

 

Jimmy, true to the tentative friendship they have somehow managed to form since September, offers the underbutler his condolences of course, shakes the man’s hand and tells him how sorry he is for his loss. To which, Barrow just quietly snorts, “Why _you_ should be sorry about the death of a bastard who managed to make my life a living hell when he was still around is honestly beyond me.”

 

Then the man carefully extricates his pale hand from Jimmy’s grasp, apparently following this unwritten rule between them that dictates they never touch.

 

No, Barrow doesn’t seem particularly saddened; it looks more as if he is scheming, plotting something in that raven-haired head of his. But yes, he has been quieter and even more contemplative than usual.

 

It’s not until a few days later that Jimmy finds out – through the rumour mill, as per usual – that Lord Grantham has told Mr Bates he honestly hopes Mr Barrow won’t just up and leave now that he has got the means to do so. (Mr Bates has subsequently told Anna about it, who has passed the news on to Mrs Hughes, who couldn’t have kept it from the maids even if she had wanted to, who … Well, long story short, a few days later, the entire household knows that Barrow has inherited a small fortune.)

 

“Always thought he was as poor as a workhouse rat,” Barrow confirms the rumours to Jimmy, speaking around his customary cigarette as the two of them stand outside one evening between two spells of rain. “Turns out he’s been out of the country for years.”

 

Jimmy makes a mental note of how the man apparently hasn’t even known where his own father has been residing for the past few years. _‘How badly do you have to fall out with your son for him to stop wanting to know about your life?’_ he wonders.

 

“‘Cause, you see … he was in Switzerland all this time, manufacturing fancy chronometres and whatnot, saving money for a rainy day. Forgot to cut me out of his will, apparently,” Barrow grimaces, finishing his tale, and stubs out his cigarette resolutely against the rain-washed brick wall behind them.

 

Jimmy doesn’t dare to ask the man how much money he has inherited. Talking about money just seems so crude somehow, so American … And anyway, they’re not _that_ close friends. (Actually, the term ‘friendship’ is just a euphemism for the status quo between them. What they have agreed on after the incident at the fair is probably best described as a de-facto truce: they don’t talk about what happened; Jimmy never brings up Barrow’s transgression, and Barrow never mentions the abominable way Jimmy treated him afterwards. They just pretend it didn’t happen. All of it. … It can barely be called a friendship. They are merely being civil to each other.) But even though there is no way for Jimmy to know if Barrow is a wealthy man now or if it’s just the kind of sum that offers financial security and makes life more comfortable, he suspects that the truth lies somewhere in between. And this suspicion is confirmed soon.

 

It’s on one of those late evenings – when the others have all retreated to their rooms already and the chill of this far-too-wet winter is creeping into the servants’ quarters like the cold fingers of some monstrous creature, the likes of which are the stuff of nightmares or modern-day experimental horror flicks – that Jimmy longs for a warm cup of tea before bed.

 

Barrow is sitting in the servants’ hall, smoking and reading _The Yorkshire Observer_ , but that much is to be expected.

 

“Anything interesting happen today?” Jimmy asks, still standing, china cup in hand. (He always remains standing in Barrow’s presence, he notices absently, feeling too awkward to sit down beside the man.)

 

“Something interesting happens every day,” Barrow replies enigmatically, looking up at him from under a lowered brow, then smoothes out the newspaper on the tabletop with his gloved hand.

 

Jimmy squints at the man over the teacup in his hand, suddenly realising that Barrow hasn’t been reading the news so much as the classified section.

 

“They’re selling the old vicarage down in the village,” the man finally elaborates, tapping the newspaper with his index and middle fingers, ash threatening to fall onto it from the cigarette that’s still stuck between those two digits. “They’re merging parishes. These days people seem to be more keen on going to the pictures and exploring jazz clubs than on attending church. Godless times we’re living in, James,” he adds with a slight ironic lilt to his voice.

 

“Oh, as if you care about that!” Jimmy snorts quietly, almost immediately realising what he has just said there and looking down into his teacup.

 

But if Barrow has noticed anything, he isn't showing it.

 

There is also the name thing. It’s rather awful, but it can’t be helped, Jimmy supposes. For, ever since the ‘incident’, Barrow has taken to calling him James again, as if to avoid the impression that he is, yet again, forcing some kind of unwelcome familiarity on Jimmy.

 

“In any case, the Church is closing up shop here, and the Reverend Albert Travis will have to move,” Barrow continues. “His Lordship doesn’t intend to keep the house. As soon as it is vacated, he’ll sell it.”

 

“Wonder what will happen to it, though,” Jimmy states quickly to make sure the other man forgets his earlier remark. “The vicarage is a grand old building, isn’t it? I mean, it’s probably as big as Crawley House–”

 

“Bigger. In a slightly more weathered state, though,” Barrow corrects him gently.

 

Jimmy peers at the man over his teacup again, shuffling his feet. “I suppose some investor is going to buy it. Some bland old nob. Or some nouveau-riche git.”

 

“Some investor, yes …” Barrow agrees, taking a leisurely drag from his cigarette. There is a strange glint in his pale blue eyes all of a sudden. “And he’s definitely rather _nouveau_ to this being _riche_ thing.”

 

Jimmy’s eyes shoot over to the other man in surprise. “You? Are you saying you’re buying the old vicarage, Mr Barrow?”

 

Barrow leans back in his chair, casually crossing his legs and blowing out an elegant plume of smoke towards the ceiling. _‘Smooth. Why does he always look so smooth?’_ Jimmy wonders. “But … why?” he enquires out loud, shuffling his feet again.

 

“You said it yourself: as an investment,” Barrow offers, sucking on his cigarette, his cheeks hollowing for a moment. “If you read the papers every night like I do, you’d know that the economy is still in free fall – mostly due to a botched monetary policy.”

 

“And here I thought prospects were finally looking up,” Jimmy argues with an unsure chuckle, sipping at his tea and adding to himself, _‘Well, it's not as if I know anything about this stuff. I just overheard that, while waiting at dinner upstairs.’_

 

Barrow shakes his head. “Prepare for a crash in a few years,” he states wisely. “You could, of course, argue that I shouldn't be buying property, what with interest rates being so high at the moment. But that doesn't concern me since I don't have to go into debt; I can pay for it in one go. The house could lose its value, yes. But it’ll still physically be there … Should the current deflation ever come to an end, I’d own something that couldn’t just melt away the way currencies do. And should His Majesty's Treasury, on the contrary, continue the deflationary policy – with unemployment continuing to soar – the house could serve as an insurance for tougher times.”

 

Jimmy hasn’t got the faintest idea about the economy. Sometimes he just feels like a naïve schoolboy when talking to Barrow. _‘When you haven’t got a farthing to spare, you tend not to worry about money devaluation quite so much,’_ he defends his own ignorance to himself. Not that his shortage of money isn’t a humiliating weight on his shoulders, a constant worry on his mind … for obvious reasons.

 

He has even made sure to make that _‘I can always get money,’_ remark in front of everybody once; he is so embarrassed about his poverty. Also, he really hadn’t wanted to take anything Barrow had paid for.

 

But then, his worries don’t stem solely from embarrassment. No, there actually _is_ an obvious, much more rational explanation, as well. Not that Jimmy can tell anyone about it … Sometimes he wishes he could, though, wishes there were at least someone he could confide in, someone to share this particular burden with, a co-conspirator of sorts. Sometimes he just hates this blasted secrecy he has imposed on himself …

 

Jimmy sets his teacup down on the saucer, which doesn’t change the fact that he is still, somewhat awkwardly, holding both those things in his hands. He could easily just sit down, of course. But then it wouldn’t look as if he had just popped down for a second on the way to his bedroom.

 

“Should I retire someday,” Barrow continues slowly, twirling the cigarette in his fingers, “I’ll have something that will last. Owning a house can give you a sense of security, independence, and … belonging … See, if one day I didn’t feel like working anymore, I could rent out rooms and live off the rent. Or I could open a little countryside hotel. Or something like that.”

 

“ _‘Barrow’s Bed and Breakfast’_ ,” Jimmy intones with a laugh and a grand sweep of his free hand, feeling like a _conférencier_ at a music hall announcing the next number.

 

Barrow just smiles a quiet smile in return.

 

“So, you’re definitely not moving away, then? Now that you’ve inherited, I mean …” Jimmy finally remembers to ask, feeling an odd, inexplicable quivering somewhere below his sternum.

 

“And where would I go, James? I’m an untrained worker. The only thing I’ve ever done is this,” Barrow replies quietly, making a small gesture with his hand, the glowing end of his cigarette describing a circle in the air. “Admittedly, there were times when I wanted to leave service. But now … in this new position …” He shrugs. “It’s not so bad. I get paid much better than a factory worker, and Grantham isn't bad either. I don’t fancy being unemployed in an economy that is still recovering …”

 

 _‘He’s always so certain,’_ Jimmy muses, watching the other man talk. _‘Like he always knows what he wants. Like he always gets what he wants, anyway.’_

 

But then, that’s not true, of course. Jimmy knows of one instance at least where Barrow didn’t get what he wanted, and it makes Jimmy’s skin crawl to think about it.

 

“I'm glad to be buying from someone I know, actually,” Barrow continues, carefully extinguishing his cigarette in an ashtray, the last of the smoke he has inhaled leaving through his nose. “I was conned out of my money once. Don’t fancy that happening again,” he adds vaguely.

 

“You’re all set!” Jimmy exclaims in surprise.

 

Barrow inclines his head, a hint of a smile playing in the corner of his eyes. “It’ll be nice for a change to sleep in a room that I actually own.”

 

“You intend to _live_ there? Er, I mean … you won’t be living in anymore?”

 

“Why, yes. That’s what I’m saying, innit?” Barrow replies, tucking both his hands into his trouser pockets and leaning back in his chair, regarding Jimmy levelly.

 

“But–” Jimmy ducks his head uncertainly, not even knowing why the prospect suddenly unnerves him so.

 

“A house like the old vicarage needs to be lived in. Admittedly, I won’t see much of it, what with getting up with the birds in the morning and returning home at odd hours in the evening. But still … Anna and Mr Bates seem to manage nicely.”

 

“Anna and Mr Bates will be so bally jealous when they hear the news. Their cottage is a hovel by comparison.”

 

“Is that so?” Barrow asks slyly, a mischievous dimple appearing in his cheek. He seems to be enjoying himself immensely.

 

“Won’t it be strange, though? You living in a house the size of Lady Isobel’s, or even bigger, and still working as an underbutler?”

 

Barrow regards him for a second or two through narrowed eyes; it’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking. “Once you get to my age, James,” he states finally, a touch of haughtiness in his voice, “you’ll know what it’s like to want something of your own.”

 

 _‘Oh, sure!’_ Jimmy thinks nastily. _‘Way to go and patronise me … just because you’re a few years older than me. This isn’t a primary school playground where the first-year pupils get shoved about by the older boys, for Heaven's sake! … Bloody ridiculous.’_

 

It takes him a lot of restraint not to lose his temper at this point, but he manages to keep himself in check. “Oh, I know that all right, Mr Barrow,” he grits out instead. “Some of us were forced to grow up long before their time,” he adds somewhat acerbically.

 

But Barrow doesn’t seem to want to rise to the challenge and ask him outright why that is. Instead the man just replies coolly, “Whatever you say, James. Whatever you say.”

 

\---

 

Naturally, Mr Carson isn’t too happy with the upcoming changes. “A man living in the old vicarage ought to have a butler of his own, Thom– Mr Barrow, _not_ work in service,” the man announces gruffly just as Jimmy passes the two of them in the downstairs hall a few days later.

 

“I’m not one of _them_ , Mr Carson,” he hears Barrow argue back. “I’ll never be. There’s no need for me to pretend. I know my place; I’m a working-class lad, not a gentleman. _One_ Tom Branson is quite enough for Yorkshire, don’t you think? … Besides, if I had to spend the rest of my life reclining on a chaise longue and sipping tea with my little finger sticking out, I’d die of boredom. Well, and then, His Lordship didn’t seem to disagree with my decision either.”

 

Mr Carson rolls his eyes, which makes him look suspiciously like a steam locomotive about to jump the tracks. “Well, if His Lordship intends to keep you on, Mr Barrow, then my hands are tied … There might even be one or two souls in this house who will be sleeping more peacefully once you don’t live under the same roof as them anymore.”

 

At this snide remark, Jimmy quickly scurries off. There’s really no need for him to be hearing any of this, he decides.

 

Later in the evening, when they’re standing outside, Jimmy watching the fast-moving, low clouds in the night sky and Barrow producing even more clouds from his cigarette, the underbutler says something that hits Jimmy square in the chest, “I intend to do something with my father’s money that’ll send the old bastard spinning in his grave: I intend to be happy.”

 

Jimmy throws him a quick glance out of the corner of his eyes. There is an expression of defiance on the man’s pale face. “You see, James,” he adds with a dark laugh, “should you ever have a son, make sure you disinherit him in time before you pass on, or else he’ll do all the god-awful things with your money you never wanted him to do.”

 

Jimmy gulps in the cool, damp night air, uncertain how to respond for a moment. (He is uncertain how to respond to Barrow half the time, which, he supposes, often makes him look curiously like a silent film actor opening and closing his mouth to no avail, waiting for the next title card to pop up.)

 

A throaty “I … I have not got any money,” is the only thing he comes up with after a moment.

 

\---

 

It all starts with a telegram.

 

And that telegram arrives now.

 

On a day that is just as grey as the ones before. It’s not raining, but it looks as if it might start pouring down any moment again. And they have had quite enough of that over the last few weeks – enough for a decade, probably. Apparently, the skies are not willing to bless them with the gentle white cover of peace and forgiveness that snow would provide. Instead, they continue to send heavy showers their way.

 

Yes, it has been an exceptionally wet winter so far, and somehow this damp cold seems even worse than if there had been a crisp, dry frost.

 

It’s the sort of cold that creeps up men’s starched cuffs and under their imperial collars, dampening their stiff shirt fronts until they are all bent out of their usual pristine cardboard-like shape. The sort of cold that ruins women’s carefully marcelled bobs, turning those perfectly sculpted waves into sagging curls that spill forth across their clammy foreheads. The sort of cold that sets everyone’s teeth on edge, making it seem as if each and every living thing in the house (including a soggy Isis and the drooping flowers in the entrance hall) is either in a dreary or in an irritable mood.

 

The telegram arrives in the morning while Jimmy is working. (Of course, it does.) Which is why he only sets eyes on it at lunchtime.

 

And it’s a telegram, not a phone call. Of course, it is. It is in keeping with his self-imposed secrecy. He had rather nobody knew about it all. No need to involve any nosy switchboard operators or to have someone from upstairs overhear his calling someone over the telephone.

 

“James, a telegram’s arrived for you,” Mrs Hughes says just as they have all pulled out their chairs in the servants’ hall, wooden chair legs scraping across the stone floor in unison, and are about to sit down. “A telegram boy delivered it earlier while you were–”

 

But Jimmy is already out of his seat again. He knows this isn’t good. No communication unless there is a problem. That’s what they have agreed on.

 

He barely notices the fact that every face in the room suddenly turns in his direction as he rips open the small pinkish envelope and unfolds the fateful slip of paper, staring at it numbly for a moment. A second later, panic explodes in his chest. “I’ve got to go!”

 

Mr Carson gives a disgruntled cough. “James, I hardly think this is acceptable, considering that it is not your half-day and–”

 

“Please, Mr Carson, sir, I need to go. It’s an emergency. A … a family matter.”

 

“Well, if that is the case, you had better hurry up. I strongly recommend you be back at a reasonable hour, young man.”

 

But Jimmy has already sprinted out of the servants’ hall. Somewhere behind him, he thinks he can make out Mrs Hughes’s concerned Scottish cooing, “Take an umbrella, James. It looks as if it’s about to–”

 

But he is already out the door.

 

\---

 

 _‘I have to get to the bus stop in time. I have to get to the bus stop in time. Have to … Have to … Have to …’_ The wet gravel crunches under his feet as he runs down the broad driveway, thoughts pounding rhythmically in his skull, in time with his steps. _‘Have to get to the village … to the bus stop … Have to …’_

 

He almost slips on a wet root when he takes a shortcut through the underbrush. Above him, the skies seem to be conspiring against him, darkness knitting itself into a formidable black veil, making it look as if the thunderbird were spreading its enormous onyx wings, covering the world more and more by the minute. It is a giant evil vulture circling overhead, slowly closing in on him, the air vibrating with a crackling tension, that makes this novel electric lighting craze, that is sweeping the country these days, look weak by comparison.

 

Out of the woods. Across that soggy lawn. Through that puddle. Down that trail and …  

 

“James! … James! Just– … Will you bloody stop for a moment?!”

 

He hears it just as the first heavy droplets begin to hit his face and chest and turns around sharply, almost stumbling and falling over.

 

It’s Barrow.

 

The man is running towards him with an open umbrella in his hand. He reaches Jimmy just as the skies open up and the downpour begins in earnest, a downpour that looks as though the end of the world has come.

 

“Are you following me?” Jimmy manages to get out between heaving breaths.

 

“Of course, I am,” Barrow insists vehemently, holding the umbrella above both of their heads. “Here!” he gasps, thrusting Jimmy’s coat at him with one hand. (It almost bounces off Jimmy’s chest; Jimmy only manages to catch it at the last moment.) “You’ve left this.” There are actually two patches of colour blooming on Barrow’s high cheekbones, Jimmy notices.

 

“I need to get to the bus stop in time,” he suddenly remembers, tearing his eyes away from Barrow’s face. “I need to go into York.”

 

“Why don’t you take the train?”

 

“The bus is due in a few minutes. The next train isn’t until later in the afternoon …”

 

He can actually see it: the way a thought crosses Barrow’s mind like a cloud drifting across his forehead, _‘Does Jimmy know all the timetables by heart?’_

 

The rain is drumming out an impatient rhythm on the taut fabric of the umbrella above them.

 

“I’ve got to dash–”

 

“Wait, if I give you my umbrella, how will I make it back to the house without getting soaked? I haven't brought a second one,” Barrow argues.

 

Above them, a peal of thunder resounds, erupting like a warning, like an announcement that this is the critical moment, the tipping point past which there will be no stopping and no going back, the point of no return, because this time they might be winding a mechanical clock whose delicate balance wheel oscillates at an unpredictable speed … The effect is only heightened by the way the rolling sound of thunder is thrown back and forth between the different buildings of the estate in the distance, like the rumbling drumbeat of an invisible orchestra amplified a thousand-fold by a gigantic gramophone horn …

 

“Right. Run!” the underbutler suddenly decides. “I’ll walk you there … Let’s get you to that bus.”

 

They break into a run again, Jimmy struggling with the sleeves of his coat, attempting to get his arms through the cuffs without tearing his livery while, at the same time, trying to keep pace with Barrow, who, seemingly without effort, is jogging down that deserted country road alongside Jimmy, holding the umbrella over the two of them.

 

Thankfully, the thing is big enough for both of them to fit under without their elbows touching. It’s the large black one Barrow likes to carry about with him in winter. It usually hangs from the crook of his arm by its handle, folded and waiting to be used as a walking stick at any moment, emphasising the underbutler’s slender yet masculine build. _‘Maybe a walking stick would suit him,’_ Jimmy catches himself thinking for some reason between two ragged breaths. The man could probably pull off such a distinguished look easily, what with those debonair looks and that suave demeanour, that seem to conceal a deeper, darker undercurrent simmering away underneath, what with those sharp cheekbones and that brilliantined black hair, that would make Rudolph Valentino weep with envy …

 

Jimmy only snaps out of his thoughts when Barrow’s voice suddenly cuts through the sound of their feet splashing through the puddles. “See? There … The bus hasn’t arrived yet,” the man says, breaths coming out quickly as he points ahead. “We’re fine … Now slow down; I’m not twenty anymore.”

 

Jimmy almost yells at him at that. It’s _so_ obvious the underbutler is just being condescending again by playing up the age gap between them, _so_ clear that Barrow, agile cricketer that he is, is the better sprinter of the two of them, _so_ humiliatingly plain to see that the man has got the longer legs and the quicker pace.

 

But Jimmy bites his tongue and manages not to explode in the other man's face. He has got plenty of other things to worry about right now.

 

They stop at the bus sign, catching their breath.

 

“You should at least button up that coat,” Barrow states after a moment, his warm breath touching Jimmy’s cheek and making him shiver more than the cold rain ever could. As he says it, the underbutler instinctively reaches out one hand up to Jimmy’s collar in a routine way, that shows he still knows his valeting business. But before his fingertips can so much as graze the fabric of Jimmy’s lapel, Barrow has already abruptly dropped his hand again, averting his gaze.

 

Jimmy starts buttoning up his coat over his crumpled livery as quickly as his cold, stiff fingers will allow.

 

All the while, the rain only intensifies, coming down around their small umbrella-covered island of dryness like a waterfall.

 

The little red bus pulls up to the kerb, and a sigh of relief breaks free from Jimmy’s chest, only to be replaced by the sudden shock of realisation piercing through him. “I … I haven’t brought any money for the fare,” he whispers, feeling himself blanch.

 

How could he have forgotten that? Why has he just stormed out of the house on impulse like some lunatic?

 

Barrow merely raises an eyebrow at him, putting away the cigarette that he had been about to light just moments before, then proceeds to the front of the bus, already pulling out a few coins from his coat pocket.

 

“I’ll pay you back,” Jimmy remembers to mumble by way of thank you, directing his words at Barrow’s retreating back. Then he quickly hurries after the man and his umbrella in order to stay out of the rain.

 

There is only a slight trace of hesitation in Barrow’s flat Mancunian vowels when he addresses the bus driver. “Can I have … _two_ tickets to York, please?”

 

At that, Jimmy feels his head snap up in surprise, and he glares daggers at the back of the underbutler’s neck from behind. But he refrains from saying anything, ducking his head and clenching his teeth. He has been given a favour and doesn't want to have it withdrawn again just because he couldn’t keep his yap shut.

 

They make their way down the narrow aisle of the bus, taking seats beside each other.

 

“Look … I won’t pry,” Barrow breaks the silence after a moment, not looking at him. “But chances are the weather will be just as frightful in York as it is here. I’ll walk you wherever you need to go, and then I’ll be off … I won’t meddle in your affairs.”

 

“All right,” Jimmy concedes meekly as the rocking bus pulls away from the kerb.

 

His mind is occupied with other things, anyway. They are the old familiar concerns, the sorrow he keeps under tight wraps while at Downton – his life, his thoughts, his feelings neatly compartmentalised – the buried worries, that have returned in a flash the moment the telegram arrived. The fears that something might happen … or has already happened … or will happen … This feeling of inadequacy and unworthiness and guilt and failure and inferiority. This frustrating powerlessness that has his stomach in knots and his head swimming, dark thoughts attacking his throbbing temples just as forcefully as the rain that keeps pattering on the roof of the bus, an all-too-familiar panic setting in …

 

In his hand, Jimmy is still clutching the crumpled and partially rain-soaked telegram that has sent him into this state of utter despair, its manila paper rough against his palm. He relaxes his fingers slightly, willing his body to calm down, and his palm half opens of its own accord, revealing the little crown printed at the top of the creased slip of paper.

 

From the corner of his eye, he can see that Barrow’s posture is just that hint too rigid to be natural. It’s almost unnoticeable – except where it isn’t: The bus hasn’t got any glass panes in its window openings, which means that one of Barrow’s arms ends up getting sprayed with water from outside periodically. The man could, of course, just as well lean slightly into Jimmy, who is sitting next to the aisle, in order to avoid getting his coat sleeve all wet. Curiously enough, though, he chooses not to.

 

On to the contrary, actually: Barrow seems to be holding himself almost unnaturally stiffly and at a slightly uncomfortable angle _away_ from Jimmy, making sure their knees and elbows don’t touch inadvertently, his back a bit too rigid, his eyes focussed a bit too hard on the road. He always looks as if he is keeping himself in check, constantly in control of his emotions, and right now isn't any different. It’s as if he has deliberately decided to keep still, to actively _not_ inconvenience his travelling companion in any way.

 

Jimmy doesn’t say anything, just holds out his half-open palm to the other man, letting him take a look at the telegram. It feels like a peace-offering of sorts.

 

Then he watches the soft grey shadows of raindrops slide over Barrow’s face as the man’s eyes quietly scan the one line printed on the small scrap of paper:

 

IT IS THE FLU STOP COME AT ONCE STOP M.P.

 

For a moment, he can see a silent question glide across the man’s knitted brow, just alongside the velvet shadows caressing his handsome features, _‘Didn’t James say he didn’t really have any family? Is he really that worried about some cousin or other?’_

 

But Barrow’s lips remain pressed together in a firm line, obvious in their determination to keep silent. The man doesn't seem to want to meddle, resolved to keep out of this. And yet, Jimmy can practically sense the suspicion radiating from Barrow’s tense body, knows what thought it is exactly that has just occurred to the underbutler … That this might not be about Jimmy’s cousins at all. That Jimmy might be hiding a secret lover. There, in a dubious corner of the city, where nobody from Downton will ever find her … That it must be an intensely close and devoted relationship for him to descend into such a state of distress …

 

Only a moment later, though, Jimmy observes how Barrow schools his expression back into one of casual disinterest; he almost has to admire the man’s self-control.

 

The bus rocks and sways along the winding country roads like an old battleship wallowing across the ocean, and Jimmy briefly wonders if he should have perhaps eaten something at the staff lunch. (But then again, maybe that would have only made things worse.) In any case, whether the hollow feeling in his stomach is down to the rolling motion of the bus or his anxiety, it all feels much worse than being seasick. And he _is_ all at sea right now …

 

It’s as if they have embarked on a seemingly endless odyssey (with considerably less Cyclopes and more potholes, though). Outside the window, walled-in fields alternate with rugged villages and shallow hills, all doused in a bleak, drizzly grey instead of the usual lush shades of green and vibrantly warm, earthy browns. Even the few sheep that seem to brave the weather outside do look dirty grey rather than white …

 

Barrow remains silent for the rest of the journey, and when they finally arrive at their destination, Jimmy is out of the bus before it has even fully stopped.

 

It's precisely at this moment that all the bells of York Minster start to peal in the distance, the whole carillon chiming out an ear-splitting, polyphonic tune, that somehow only adds to the apocalyptic atmosphere bearing down on them, black clouds hanging so deep that they almost touch the roofs of the ancient city.

 

It isn’t anything like the big metropolises, of course, where sleek automobiles fight for attention with flashing lights and blinking electric advertising hoardings. But nonetheless, the streets of York are bustling with life, people milling about despite the heavy downpour.

 

There are women returning from the shops – basket in hand, long skirts soaking up the muddy water from the puddles – clutching their shawls to their bosoms as they rush along the narrow cobbled streets.

 

There are police constables blowing their whistles, black helmets glistening with rain.

 

There are telegram boys on their bicycles, ringing their bells and racing one another through the puddles.

 

There are paperboys in short trousers, their thick wool socks pulled up to their knobbly knees, their newsboy caps askew, running for shelter, frantically trying to get their precious periodicals somewhere dry. Some of them look as if they have only just stopped calling out the day’s headlines to passers-by while waving the afternoon editions of their gazettes in the faces of those who had dared to approach their street corner.

 

There is even a shoeshine boy – waiting for customers near the bus stop – who, despite the torrential rain, tries to talk Barrow into getting his shoes cleaned for three halfpence. When Barrow declines, stating in a clipped tone that he is perfectly capable of doing that on his own, and the boy trudges off with a dejected face and hanging shoulders, Jimmy can’t help it but feel sorry for the child. _‘How old is he, anyway? Six? Seven, perhaps?’_ he wonders. _‘And doing it out of poverty, no doubt.’_ They’re orphans, all of these children, having lost their fathers in a war they barely know anything about and forced to look after themselves now. It’s scary to imagine what can happen to children in a big city if there’s no one there to provide for them, Jimmy realises, shivering at the thought.

 

In all this ruckus – angry skies bursting with thunder, shaking the very ground and echoing in every peal of the church bells behind them – the profound silence between the two of them is all the more conspicuous as they weave their way through the busy streets, huddled under Barrow’s black umbrella.

 

The underbutler, true to his promise, doesn’t utter a single word, doesn’t ask any questions and doesn’t offer any opinion on the subject of their heading towards some destination that, to him, must seem shrouded in mystery. And somewhere deep down, Jimmy feels vaguely grateful for the man’s silence – even if his mind is on other things right now; the nearer they draw to their destination, the more erratic his heart beats in his clenching chest. This suppressed worry inside of him has become so overwhelming that he literally feels like being sick all over the pavement right there and then although he hasn’t even had any lunch earlier. His cold, clammy fingers are trembling in his coat pockets, where Barrow (thankfully) can't see them, and an absolutely rotten feeling, a cross between guilt and fear, remorse and agony, is gnawing away at his insides like a cancerous growth insidiously working its way to the surface. He barely recognises his own voice anymore as he hoarsely gives directions to the other man, “This way … That way … We've got to cross the street here …“

 

They stay outside the old city walls, on the other side of the river, the sound of Great Peter getting fainter and fainter behind them the further they head away from the city centre and into South Bank, the neighbourhood turning poorer with every step they take.

 

It might not look as bleak as the soot-blackened houses of Sheffield or Leeds, where ‘dark Satanic Mills’ churn out smoke day and night, but it's hardly a sight to swoon and sigh over, red-brick terraced houses spewing water from every burst rain pipe and rubbish lying about everywhere, not a single tree or flower pot in sight.

 

It’s the epitome, the face, of the Poor Law – the exact opposite of Downton with its polished marble floors, where artfully coiffed beaus dash about in well-tailored suits, sporting a buttonhole and a monogrammed pocket handkerchief … where rosy-cheeked ladies in seemingly endless strings of pearls sip champagne from Bohemian crystal glasses in damask-covered boudoirs …

 

Yes, this here is to Downton what a glass plate negative is to a photograph, all the shades of black and white reversed into their opposites.

 

It’s the sort of place where pauperism isn’t just a newspaper story but a reality that’s etched into the faces of countless destitute war orphans out on the streets, that’s alive in every derelict workhouse filled with the unemployed and crippled and disillusioned … and that persists on the stale breath of every drunk trying to drown his sorrows in ardent spirits.

 

Somewhere nearby, Jimmy can hear the electric tram rattle its way along the street. Ever since it replaced the old horse-drawn one, the god-awful stench of horse manure in the neighbourhood has subsided considerably. So, at least that’s something …

 

The foul smell does, however, still waft over from the Knavesmire racecourse from time to time, reminding Jimmy of his past fruitless attempts to get rich at a galloping pace. (If only Lady Fortune had been on his side! But apparently, the fickle goddess isn’t in the betting business or really just doesn't favour fools at all.)

 

When finally they arrive at their destination, a gloomy old boarding house, Jimmy feels himself shiver the way he always does in front of the multi-storey Victorian building towering threateningly over the workers’ two-up two-down cottages surrounding it.

 

The house is more than just a little run-down, and Jimmy curses himself silently for the hundredth time for not being able to find a better-paid job or not at least having a luckier streak at the bookies. At least _then_ he could rent a nice, bright, clean flat …

 

He watches Barrow size up the building with his pale grey eyes. The man’s lips are pressed together in a thin line, and his body looks tense, as if he is preparing to turn on his heel and stalk off in the direction of the city centre.

 

“Wait,” Jimmy hears himself whisper all of a sudden, his voice coming out even deeper than usual.

 

Barrow just arches a silent eyebrow at him.

 

“I can’t do this alone,” Jimmy suddenly realises. And it’s true. As irrational as it seems, he needs someone’s support right now.

 

And just like that, his stomach is all in knots again.

 

He casts his eyes down to the ground, gulping. “It’s on the top floor,” he offers softly.

 

Barrow folds up his umbrella, giving it one, two deft shakes to get the excess water off it, then yanks open the heavy, battered wooden door with one fluid movement of his arm.

 

Their eyes need a moment to adjust to the darkness in the hall. The pervasive stench of overcooked cabbage invades their noses immediately, though, disgustingly reminiscent of a dingy, old school refectory and clinging to their every pore.

 

A low clicking sound indicates that Barrow is trying to flick the light switch, but Jimmy knows all too well that the lights haven’t been working for months. It remains dark.

 

There are people living in virtually every last room in this house, he knows. Even the cellars are tenanted.

 

Somewhere a woman suddenly starts coughing. Violently. It’s a rattling, whistling sound erupting in the silence of the house, as if she is going to cough up a lung any minute.

 

In front of them, in the semi-darkness, a half-starved cat comes creeping down the stairs towards the ground floor and starts hissing aggressively the very moment it catches sight of them, its eyes two evil green flames in a sea of black.

 

“Come on,” Jimmy whispers, and they start climbing the creaking wooden stairs.

 

On the first landing, they stop for a second, catching their breath. There are two shrill voices drifting out from behind one of the doors, a couple screaming at each other at the top of their lungs.

 

“T’were me own broother? Tha bloody whore!” they hear the man shout, his voice laced with an even thicker working class accent than their own.

 

“Sa what?!” the woman replies in a shrieking voice. “Will tha get it inta thy thick ‘ead that ah loove ‘im? At least ‘ee knows ‘ow ter appreciate a lass!”

 

“Ah’ll kill the bloody bastard with me bare … Ow!” the man suddenly exclaims. (There has just been a loud smashing sound as if she has thrown the chamber pot at him.)

 

“Oh, the joys of matrimony!” Barrow mutters wryly out of the corner of his mouth. And Jimmy feels himself smile despite everything.

 

Then they quickly hurry up the next flight of worn-out stairs.

 

There is a girl standing on the next landing, resting her back against the bannister. Jimmy knows her from his previous visits to the house – she seems to be a permanent lodger – but he has never talked to her or even looked at her twice.

 

It’s hard to tell how old she is. Probably not of age yet; that’s his guess. But she always wears so much make-up that it's impossible to tell. He also has a strong suspicion that she makes a living in the world's oldest profession.

 

Today she is in a white nightie with a half-open floral-print dressing gown thrown around her shoulders. Its silk fabric is threadbare and frayed, the faded flowers barely visible anymore. And the cigarette she is sucking on unenthusiastically has traces of her too-bright, coral lipstick on it.

 

She looks a bit as if she is pretending to be all grown-up and worldly-wise, languidly blowing out smoke in small rings like some depraved femme fatale, trying (but failing) to come across as a high-class courtesan, who is used to providing the most exquisite pleasures to clients in ritzy Grand Hotels and illicit opium dens alike.

 

In fact, she looks a bit sickly, with her dishwater blond hair in tangles and her snub nose reddened like a child’s – even if she is just as cheeky as always, the hand holding the cigarette resting on her hip, her bust pushed out, obviously striking a pose for them. Her free hand is playing with the dressing gown cord, twirling its end in a circle in front of herself, and her kohl-rimmed eyes – smudged with so much black that the sight would have Mrs Patmore screaming with terror – are following Barrow.

 

She is ignoring Jimmy completely (as she always does), yet clearly giving the underbutler an appraising up and down once-over, obviously noticing the finer cut of his coat as well as the fact that he is older than Jimmy and pegging him as a gentleman caller.

 

“Well, _hello_ , mista,” she purrs at Barrow, pulling up her nightshirt a bit to expose a sliver of snow-white thigh.

 

It’s almost worth it just to see the utterly unimpressed expression on Barrow’s face, Jimmy thinks and has to bite his lip to keep a straight face.

 

“Put on some clothes, kid,” Barrow replies coolly like an uncle scolding an insolent child.

 

And then, they’re already climbing the next flight of stairs.

 

When they’ve finally reached the top floor, Jimmy freezes for a second, worry and trepidation creeping back into his heart.

 

It’s not even a real bedroom. Behind that battered door, there is a hastily refurbished attic, he knows, a feeling of humiliation burning in his chest. It’s a dingy hole of a room, too small to swing a cat in, dank and dirty, and he is about to open that door and show Barrow in.

 

All of a sudden, he feels incredibly self-conscious about his poverty again.

 

 _‘Don’t be silly,’_ he reprimands himself. _‘The man’s probably seen worse. He wasn't born an underbutler … Besides, you’ve got other things to worry about right now.’_

 

And yet he hesitates.

 

For a moment, the only thing that can be heard is the heavy pattering of rain on the roof above them.

 

“What’s behind that door?” Barrow asks with a neutral expression on his face.

 

“Edward,” Jimmy whispers, noticing, to his surprise, that Barrow’s pupils dilate for a second in the dim half-light. It’s as though the name has made something inside the man resonate with a faint melody.

 

Then Jimmy raises his left hand and raps his knuckles on the door.

 

\---

 

Mrs Petersen’s tired expression is the first thing Jimmy sees when the door swings open, the lines on her round, grandmotherly face even deeper than usual, her grey brows furrowed.

 

“Thank God you’re here, Mr Kent,” she exclaims, her thick Danish accent making it hard to discern the consonants. She tucks a once-ginger, now-mostly-grey strand of hair behind her ear and adds, “I was so worried. I had no idea what to do.”

 

And then Jimmy hears it, that long-awaited sound that he hasn’t heard in over a fortnight: a loud, boisterous voice and the pitter-patter of tiny feet running towards him. “Daddy!”

 

A knot of worry and love explodes in his chest once again as the small figure throws itself in his arms, two tiny fists holding on to his lapels with a surprisingly fierce grip.

 

From the corner of his eyes, Jimmy can see that Barrow is still standing on the threshold, mouth agape, for once absolutely stunned.

 

 _‘Yes, I know what you’re thinking: A child! And he looks exactly like me,’_ Jimmy thinks, helplessly hugging the little blond boy to himself as he lifts him up in his arms.

 

The four-year-old is getting heavy, Jimmy registers absently. But something else is more important right now.

 

He presses a kiss to Eddie’s little forehead, noticing immediately how warm the boy’s skin feels against his cool lips. “God, Eddie. you’re burning up. Let’s get you back to bed,” he mutters uncertainly.

 

“It was even worse earlier,” Mrs Petersen’s concerned voice chunters somewhere in the background. “I was so worried, Mr Kent. I’m sure it’s that dreadful flu again. It looks just the same as back then.”

 

She then proceeds to throw a questioning look at Barrow from behind her pince-nez. The man is still standing there like a pillar of salt, unmoving, eyes tracking Jimmy’s every move, taking in the small room, the slanted walls where the roof angles down to the floor, the dusty, half-blind skylights that serve as tiny windows, the yellowing floral wallpaper … and, of course, the frail, fair boy who looks like a miniature figurine of his father.

 

Jimmy knows that; he’s been told many times that Eddie resembles him. Not that he knows what to do with this particular piece of information. (Be proud? Laugh? Cry? … Most of the time, he feels like doing all three of those things at the same time. And he has got no idea if that’s normal or if it is just because he is so clueless about the whole concept of fatherhood.)

 

He carries the protesting boy across the room like the precious jewel that he is – all under Barrow’s scrutinising gaze – and places him carefully back on the rickety metal-frame bed in the corner, untangling himself from his short arms with difficulty and covering him with the sheet and the scratchy old blanket lying on the bed, then sits down on the mattress beside him.

 

“Missed you so much, daddy,” Eddie pouts in protest. His cheeks are even rosier than usual, his blue eyes glowing with fever; it’s obvious he’s overexcited for now, but getting weaker again already.

 

“You’re very ill, Eddie,” Jimmy says quietly, smoothing back his son’s unruly golden locks and feeling absolutely powerless. _‘God, I’m such a failure at this,’_ he thinks distraught. _‘You deserve an older, more mature father, Eddie. One who actually knows what he’s doing. Not one who could easily be mistaken for a clueless, good-for-nothing brother.’_

 

When he turns, Mrs Petersen looks as if she is about to cry any minute. “I would have taken him to see a doctor, but you know we can’t afford it, Mr Kent. If only they would consider introducing some sort of national health programme so that the lower classes could–”

 

“Pha! As if _that’s_ ever going to happen,” Jimmy snorts, feeling a surge of helpless anger.

 

It’s at this moment that Barrow finally breaks his silence, having apparently regained the power of speech. “I might not be a doctor,” he offers quietly, “but I’m the next best thing.”

 

Surprised, Jimmy glances back at the man over his shoulder, seeing Mrs Petersen’s eyes widen with curiosity. “I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten to introduce you,” he finally remembers his manners. “This is Mrs Petersen, my son’s nursemaid … And this is Mr Barrow, my … my–”

 

He is about to say ‘superior’ when Barrow interrupts him in a low voice. “We work together,” the man states matter-of-factly, thus implying to her that they are on the same rung of the social ladder (which, clearly, they are _not_ ).

 

Mrs Petersen shakes Barrow’s hand politely. “How do you do, sir?”

 

But Jimmy interrupts them impatiently. “So, how exactly _are_ you the next best thing to a doctor, Mr Barrow?”

 

“I’ve had several years of medical training. Served in the Royal Army Medical Corps during the war,” the man replies calmly, finally pulling the door shut behind himself and crossing the small room in a few purposeful strides.

 

 _‘Well, there's something I didn't suspect,’_ Jimmy thinks. _‘The man is full of surprises, isn't he? Didn’t think him the caring sort.’_

 

He watches as the former medic pulls the only chair in the room over to the bed with one sure movement of his arm, wooden chair legs scraping against the worn-out timber floor. “Usually, I’m more one for cleaning bullet wounds and changing bandages, but I think I’ll manage,” Barrow continues, hooking the handle of his umbrella on the back of the chair and sitting down.

 

Eddie is watching the strange man sitting next to his bed through heavy-lidded eyes, but it’s obvious that he is not frightened. He has never been shy with strangers. Whomever his father brings home can’t be a baddie; that seems to be the boy's philosophy. Jimmy gets his confirmation when, a second later, Eddie’s trusting eyes fix on Barrow’s face and he asks in a subdued, yet curious voice, “Who are you, mister?”

 

“I’m Mr Barrow, Edward.”

 

“I like your ears!” the boy blurts out so randomly that it catches all three of them off guard. “They’re … te-rri-fic,” he intones enthusiastically.

 

Barrow laughs. It’s a genuine, honest laugh, that transforms his face, breaking his usual mask of carefully cultivated detachment and making him look younger somehow, smoothing out the tension around his eyes. There is a softness and warmth to his gaze now that Jimmy wouldn't have believed possible mere moments ago, and that little mischievous dimple in his cheek makes an appearance when he replies, “Why, thank you. I’m rather attached to them myself.”

 

Eddie looks as if he hasn’t really understood Barrow’s response, but he smiles back up at the man, anyway. (Not that Jimmy has really grasped what’s so ‘terrific’ about Barrow’s ears; they look perfectly normal from where he is sitting. But then, it’s probably a fruitless endeavour to try and follow the thought processes of a four-year-old.)

 

“You don’t look like a doctor,” Eddie observes, suddenly a bit more wary. (Because if this stranger is, in fact, a paediatrician, this would be the perfect time to hide under the blanket … or perhaps wail. Better safe than sorry.)

 

“Nah,” Barrow replies with a wink and a throw-away gesture of his hand. “They look so silly in their white coats, eh?”

 

Eddie giggles in relief.

 

“And all they ever do is prod you with their stupid stethoscopes and force bitter medicine down your throat … _I_ haven’t got any medicine. See?”

 

“Well, I sort of wish you had, though,” Jimmy hears himself mutter before he can stop himself.

 

“I wasn't talking to _him_ , was I?” Barrow whispers conspiratorially in Eddie’s direction.

 

“Nah,” Eddie replies enthusiastically and does a spot-on Mr Barrow impression by making the exact same throw-away gesture the man has made just moments before. It looks rather comical, as the boy’s hands are so much smaller than Barrow’s, and Jimmy feels himself smile again despite the knot of worry that is still clenching in his chest.

 

Meanwhile, Barrow has shifted forwards in his chair a bit, extending his right hand and placing it tenderly on the boy’s forehead.

 

To Jimmy’s surprise, Eddie doesn’t scream blue murder, his eyes fluttering shut instead, trust written all over his face. “Feels nice,” he mumbles quietly.

 

“Well, that’s ‘cause my hand is cool and you’ve got a fever, matey,” Barrow explains quietly, then tears his hand away and, in the same breath, extends it towards Jimmy (who is still sitting on the side of the bed) placing his palm flat against _his_ forehead as well.

 

Jimmy freezes, willing himself not to recoil from the touch once he has realised what Barrow is doing and forcing himself to keep still. _‘He’s simply comparing Eddie’s temperature to mine because he hasn’t got a thermometer,’_ he tells himself. _‘But, God, his cool hand does feel rather nice, doesn’t it?’_ It takes all of Jimmy’s willpower not to close his eyes as well.

 

“Is daddy ill too?” a small voice asks from the direction of the pillow.

 

“I don’t think so,” Barrow replies, and Jimmy feels almost bereft when the man withdraws his hand.

 

“He is not ill, but … he might be a bit cuckoo if you ask me,” Barrow stage-whispers in Eddie’s direction, tapping himself on his forehead. “But let’s not tell him, all right? He’d just get cross with me.”

 

Eddie gives another happy giggle at the tapping motion, proceeding to mimic that one as well.

 

“I don’t think his temperature is that high at the moment,” Barrow says in a more serious tone as he turns to face Jimmy. “It’s just a touch of fever.”

 

“It was really high yesterday evening, you see,” Mrs Petersen interrupts them. “That’s why I decided to send you that telegram in the morning, Mr Kent … Ever since that awful flu epidemic, I keep thinking it'll come back. What if there is some new strain going around this year?”

 

“How did it all start, Mrs Petersen?” Barrow enquires, all business now, half turning in his chair to face her.

 

The woman wipes her hands on her old apron. “The day before yesterday he was complaining about a sore throat, you see? Then, yesterday, he started running a fever. And ever since then, it has all got progressively worse.”

 

“Any other symptoms? Muscle pains? Nausea? Vomiting? Coughing?”

 

Mrs Petersen just shakes her head. “No. He's just been feeling weak and tired and has lost his appetite.”

 

From the corner of his eye, Jimmy can see that Eddie is, once again, eyeing Barrow – and particularly his ears – with a look of open-mouthed curiosity and an avid fascination that is one of the great gifts of childhood.

 

“Are you an elephant?” the boy suddenly demands to know in what must be the world’s most bizarre non sequitur.

 

Barrow whirls around in his chair again. “What? … No, no, I'm not an elephant, I'm afraid,” he laughs, subconsciously touching one of his ears as if to check that it hasn't somehow grown without him noticing.

 

Eddie looks rather crestfallen at that.

 

“Wouldn't it be brilliant if I were an elephant, though?” Barrow asks. “Just imagine how I could roar at everyone.”

 

But the boy is already shaking his blond curls vehemently. “Not true,” he points out in a serious four-going-on-forty voice. “Elephants don’t roar; they trumpet. _Lions_ roar!”

 

“You don’t say!” Barrow looks honestly surprised now; the tiny little twinkle in the corner of his eye is probably only obvious to the grown-ups in the room.

 

 _‘How does Barrow even do that?’_ Jimmy wonders, increasingly amazed at how naturally all of this seems to come to the other man. _‘Is it just the medical training? Or why is he so good at this?’_ The underbutler doesn't seem to find it very hard to connect with a child. Four years of fatherhood and still Jimmy hasn’t managed the sort of easy conversation that Barrow is currently having with Eddie.

 

To Jimmy, it all still feels like having a younger brother. A little baby brother, that he has to look after, not even knowing how that’s done, conscientiously trying (and oftentimes failing) to work it out along the way … and always, always worrying about the little one, with a sort of rib-clenching, throat-constricting love that he would have thought impossible if it weren’t for the boy’s sweet and sunny soul …

 

Meanwhile, Eddie has sat up in bed and announced, “I can roar like a lion if you like, Mr Barrow,” his voice as serious as the King’s at the State Opening of Parliament.

 

“ _Really?_ ” Barrow asks, raising his eyebrows and acting sceptical. “Nah, I don’t believe that,” he adds with overly dramatic, put-on arrogance.

 

“I can _too!_ ” Eddie pouts. The boy has never been one to pass up a challenge, which is probably why he suddenly opens his mouth as wide as he can, tilting his head comically to the side, his small face almost splitting in half. “Raaaaawr!”

 

Barrow is quick, very quick, as he ducks his head a bit, squinting his eyes and peering into Eddie’s mouth in the faint light filtering in from outside, all without the boy even taking note of it.

 

 _‘Sneaky,’_ Jimmy thinks, smiling inwardly at Barrow’s underhand way of examining Eddie’s sore throat.

 

“Did you see that?” the boy calls out excitedly. “I’m a lion. I could’ve devoured all three of you.”

 

At that, Barrow gives a very convincing, contrite sigh. “All right, you _can_ roar; you’re a lion,” he admits, adding, “Oh, but wait … To hunt for his prey, a lion has to be able to run across the savannah and pounce–”

 

“What’s a savannah?” Eddie’s high-pitched voice pipes up from the pillow, where he is, once again, resting his little head. It's funny how easily children can get sidetracked by the smallest details, such as unfamiliar words or concepts, Jimmy thinks.

 

“Just a whole lot of grass and sand,” Barrows replies and, extending his arm, lets his fingers gallop along the edge of the mattress. “But _that’s_ how fast a lion’s got to run in order to chase and devour his prey,” he demonstrates. “And that’s not going to happen if the lion’s paws are hurting and–”

 

“But my paws aren’t hurting!” Eddie protests louder than Jimmy would have thought possible considering the boy’s state of exhaustion. “See?” Eddie holds out his little white arm for Barrow to inspect.

 

“Not even a little?” Barrow marvels, mock-stunned.

 

Eddie shakes his head vehemently again.

 

“What about the legs, er, hind paws?”

 

“Not one bit,” Eddie announces proudly.

 

“Astounding!” At that, Barrow takes hold of the boy’s forearm, gently turning it to examine it from all sides, clearly checking the boy for signs of a rash.

 

 _‘He’s checking for measles and such,’_ Jimmy realises, watching Barrow playfully ruffle his son’s hair and, at the same time, squint at the top of the boy’s head and the back of his ears.

 

Finally, Barrow sits back, giving Eddie a very impressed look. “Well, as it turns out, I was wrong and you were right: you truly _are_ a lion, and all I can do is bow before the king of beasts,” he says very seriously and actually gets up from his chair for a moment to give his best underbutler bow. “We will have to tell Mrs Petersen to look out, or else she might end up getting devoured one fine day.”

 

The boy giggles again, a bit tired from all the games, eyes already drooping again.

 

“James, I don’t think it’s the flu,” Barrow finally states in his usual adult voice, sitting down again.

 

The relief flooding Jimmy at that feels like a tall wave crashing over him, warm, strong and overwhelming. And yet, there are still a few icy undercurrents raging in the depths of those waters: he should be stronger, he knows, stronger for his child. A real father. A proper man. But no one has ever shown him how that’s done, how one is supposed to take responsibility for a child when one isn’t even really able to take care of oneself. He is a helpless and desperately overtaxed father, unable to cope and guilt-ridden about it. That’s what he is.

 

“Are you certain of it?” he whispers in Barrow’s general direction.

 

“With the flu, the fever would be much higher,” the man nods calmly. “And his body temperature would spike and drop several times during the day, not just rise in the evening. He would experience muscle pain in the limbs and chills all over. And it would have started suddenly, abruptly, almost out of the blue. Wouldn’t have progressed like it did. From what I can tell, it’s none of the other serious infectious diseases either. No, no, no, first a sore throat, _then_ the fever … and no aches, pains or nausea … This is a common cold.”

 

“But he’s _had_ colds!” Mrs Petersen argues. “None of them this bad … well, apart from the last one, I suppose … and the one before that, perhaps … and …” Her voice trails off uncertainly.

 

“It’s important to remember that he’s a child,” Barrow reminds her softly. “With small children, every cold is different, and symptoms can be more severe than in adults.”

 

“I’m not small,” Eddie mumbles tiredly in protest.

 

“Of course, you’re not!” Jimmy and Barrow reply in unison, then smile at each other awkwardly once they realise they have both said it at the same time.

 

Behind them, the dear old Mrs Petersen is wringing her hands. “If it’s not the flu, then I’m dreadfully sorry to have bothered you, Mr Kent. Perhaps I shouldn’t have written to you quite so quickly.”

 

But before Jimmy can reassure her that everything is, in fact, all right, Barrow jumps to the rescue and says, “It’s none of your fault, Mrs Petersen. I suppose the horrors of the Spanish flu are still so fresh on all our minds that we’re prone to jumping to the wrong conclusions … But if I’m not very much mistaken, this one here will be up and about again in no time.”

 

“You think?” Jimmy hears himself rasp out, shocked at how small and afraid his own voice sounds.

 

Barrow nods again. “The fever will break by tomorrow, and then he’s going to start sneezing a lot and get a runny nose … and come tomorrow morning, he’ll be in the whiniest mood you can imagine.”

 

“Oh, yes, I think I can picture _that_ ,” Jimmy whispers with a warm smile, looking down at his son, who’s about to doze off. For a second, it feels as if something inside of him is breaking – but not in a bad way.

 

“Oi, Lion?” Barrow says softly.

 

“Hm?”

 

“You haven’t got a mane, you know?” Barrow points out quietly.

 

“I have _too_ ,” Eddie fights sleep one last time to protest. “Look!” He clumsily shakes his blond curls again.

 

“But a lion’s mane extends down to the neck, you see?” Barrow explains seriously. “That’s why lions never _ever_ get a sore throat.”

 

“Oh …” Eddie’s little face falls at that. “I wish I was a lion.”

 

“I think we could do something about that.” With these words, Barrow opens the top button of his coat and takes off his scarf.

 

It’s a very nice scarf, soft and warm, and Barrow looks rather dashing in it, actually. It has a tartan pattern and is just the right shade of warm beige for a lion’s mane. It’s the sort of scarf that Jimmy has never owned in his life, a piece of clothing that shows that Barrow pays close attention to his appearance, as if attempting to prove that, even on a relatively small salary, a man can strive to dress elegantly. It's not exactly Savile Row tailoring, but it is a look that is handsomely debonair.

 

“Let’s make you a nice lion’s mane,” Barrow says in a soft voice and puts the scarf around Eddie’s neck, wrapping it around once, twice, three times. “It’s not scratchy, is it?”

 

Eddie shakes his sleepy head. “It’s soft.”

 

“Good.” And Barrow smiles a quiet, private smile that Jimmy has rarely ever seen on the man’s usually sullen face.

 

It’s stunning, actually, how good he is at all of this, how naturally it seems to come to him, as if he doesn't even need to think about it, as if that’s just what he is: good-natured and friendly and secretly even a bit childish on the inside, letting some inner boyish light-heartedness shine through for once.

 

Yes, Barrow seems much more in touch with his inner child … with his entire inner _self_ , as a matter of fact. It’s a task that only a man completely at ease with himself can master, Jimmy realises, a man who feels completely comfortable in his own skin and is enough of an adult to not think it threatening to his self-esteem to let himself be playful and even gentle in a way that Jimmy would never dare to consider.

 

And it’s obvious that Eddie is responding to it in kind, lying there with a content smile on his little face that makes Jimmy’s heart break and mend at the same time.

 

“However did you do that, Mr Barrow?” Jimmy hears himself whisper, trying very hard but failing to keep the awe out of his voice.

 

“Hm? What do you mean?” For once, Barrow seems honestly stumped.

 

“Never mind.”

 

 _‘Is it really just the medical training?’_ Jimmy wonders. No, it’s probably more than just something Barrow has been _taught_. It’s in the man’s nature to be observant, Jimmy realises. Barrow understands what makes people tick. He is very perceptive of what goes on around him and knows how to respond to any given situation. (Something that Jimmy fears he’ll never achieve. He is just so much more impatient and hot-headed than Barrow.) Add to that the fact that the underbutler is obviously unusually intelligent (far above average, as a matter of fact) and seems to have seen quite a few things in his life, and it becomes rather clear why the man knows how to relate to a child. And anyway … Barrow seems to have sussed himself out better than anyone else. Better than Jimmy, in any case.

 

It's a double-edged sword: on the one hand, it seems to be this life experience, this personality, that makes Barrow so bitter and ruthless, even merciless sometimes; on the other, it is apparently also what allows him to read people much better than Jimmy ever could.

 

“Unless I’m very much mistaken, he’ll feel better by tomorrow. Should I somehow have got it all wrong and should he feel even more poorly come tomorrow, you might want to consult a doctor, Mrs Petersen,” Barrow then decides to announce to the room at large, taking a black leather-bound notebook out of his coat's inside pocket and scribbling down a name and address with a small Derwent pencil that he has retrieved from its spine.

 

“There’s a nice elderly GP in Stonegate,” he adds, tearing the page he has written on from his pocket book and handing it to Mrs Petersen. “I worked with him for a few weeks during the war. Not that I really think you’ll need him. And then … there’s _this_ …”

 

Barrow’s low voice trails off as he quickly takes a few notes and coins out of his pocket and places them on the small wooden table in the middle of the room.

 

He doesn’t make a fuss about it, no big gesture of charity and benevolence, just puts the money on the table unceremoniously, as if trying to spare everyone the embarrassment.

 

From the way the silver half crowns and gold sovereigns flash quickly in front of Jimmy’s eyes, it becomes quite clear, though, that Barrow has just left a pretty penny on the table.

 

And this doesn’t sit right with Jimmy.

 

At all.

 

This is the man who has … harassed him, after all. He is not sure he can accept help from him. Yet.

 

“I cannot take that,” he bites out on impulse, feeling one last wave of anger well up inside of him.

 

“Yes, I know,” Barrow replies coolly. “That’s why I’m not offering it to you; I’m offering it to Mrs Petersen.”

 

“But–”

 

“And if Edward still has a fever tomorrow,” Barrow cuts him off sharply, eyes fixed on the elderly woman, whose eyes, in turn, are curiously darting back and forth between the two of them, “please make sure to get him some quinine tabloids at the chemist, Mrs Petersen,” he adds, pretending not to see or hear any of Jimmy’s protests.

 

He pockets his little book again and smiles at Mrs Petersen as if Jimmy weren't even in the room. “Apart from that, there isn’t much you _can_ do. But it's not as if he needs that much right now. Just tea and kindness, I suppose … But then, he’s probably in the best of hands with you when it comes to that.”

 

Mrs Petersen gives the man a fond smile at that, and Jimmy realises that, of course, Barrow has managed to charm his way into the woman’s heart like he always does. (He’s obviously good at that, the sneaky bastard!) But right now, Jimmy can’t even bring himself to get really angry with the man anymore, a feeling of numbness spreading throughout his body and paralysing him and all the parts of his brain that are responsible for the usual Jimmy-esque outbursts.

 

It’s a sense of relief, he realises, relief coupled with a feeling of fatigue that makes him listen silently to Mrs Petersen’s claims that herbal teas are better than anything you can get from the chemist, anyway, and that if it hadn’t been for that ’wretched, newfangled stuff called aspirin’, less people would have died of the Spanish flu.

 

It’s relief and gratefulness to the powers (that might or might not exist) up above that makes him watch Barrow smile at her quietly.

 

And Jimmy is secretly, guiltily grateful that Eddie is already dozing off when they finally leave. (It’s always so heartbreaking to leave when the boy cries and holds on to his dad with all his might.)

 

 _‘I wonder when he’ll start to just hate me for leaving instead,’_ Jimmy thinks bitterly, giving his son one last kiss on the forehead and watching as the boy snuffles happily in his sleep, nose buried in Barrow's scarf, probably sniffing out the man’s cologne or something.

 

\---

 

They don’t talk as they make their way down the stairs and out into the street, walking under the cover of Barrow’s black umbrella just as before and remaining utterly silent. And Jimmy is grateful for that, really grateful; the last thing he needs in this state of emotional exhaustion is to be scolded or to be given the third degree.

 

By now the skies have really opened the floodgates, and it is coming down so hard that it's difficult not to get soaked even under the umbrella. The weather seems to have forgotten that it's winter and that spring is supposed to be just around the corner. Instead it looks as if it's caught in a perpetual state of autumn, the cold rain washing away every last shred of hope for a potential change in seasons.

 

Jimmy has got to keep very close to the other man in order to stay out of the rain, and it is embarrassingly obvious now that Barrow is making a conscious effort not to touch him inadvertently, leaning away from him and into the downpour. It’s ridiculous that they’re still doing this, Jimmy realises, and for some mysterious reason that he doesn’t quite comprehend, it makes him angry all of a sudden.

 

Why are they still keeping up this façade? What is Barrow trying to prove by being so aloof? That he is not going to take advantage of Jimmy? What a silly notion! As if he ever would! For some reason, the idea that the underbutler might be doing this with this exact thought in mind offends Jimmy no end. Doesn't Barrow trust him at all? Does he really think Jimmy will scream blue murder the moment their elbows so much as brush against each other? Jimmy doesn’t know why he feels so insulted by the idea, but what he does know is that there is a new resolve taking shape in his mind, a resolve to change the way they behave around each other.

 

With any other friend – with a real friend, that is – Jimmy would have had already taken their arm, and the two of them would have continued walking under their shared umbrella, arm in arm, chatting and laughing. It’s simply what friends _do_ , especially the more upper-crust gentlemen.

 

But since they are neither of these two things, they just continue down the street in silence.

 

They walk past a concrete telephone kiosk, that the Post Office have recently had installed. (Personally, Jimmy thinks it’s a bit of a silly idea. People will never get used to making phone calls outside in the street. And why would they? Why would anyone want to share their most private conversations with the world at large? And in a ridiculous red booth at that! No, no, these phone boxes won’t survive a year, Jimmy reckons. Just like those ‘talking pictures’ that some cinemas are experimenting with nowadays.)

 

As they turn a corner, Jimmy spots two boys – maybe nine or ten years old – cowering in a doorway, hiding from the rain. They appear to be trying to light an old cigarette stub that they must have found somewhere, and for a short moment, Jimmy wonders if this is what Barrow looked like when he was a boy: bored and sulky, tousled black hair falling into his sullen eyes, chewing on an unlit dog-end and plotting against whoever had dared to steal his tuck box, planning a personal vendetta against them like some criminal mastermind, the ten-year-old menace of Greater Manchester.

 

Jimmy snorts loudly at the image, drawing a surprised look from the other man.

 

When he doesn’t elaborate on the cause of his amusement, though, Barrow quickly averts his eyes again.

 

A bit further down the street, there is a coal lorry parked on the pavement, a stocky man unloading its cargo in the pouring rain, his soot-blackened face twisting with exertion as he lifts sack after heavy sack off the vehicle’s platform. (Jimmy feels vaguely sorry for the poor cove toiling away in this hellish weather. There certainly _are_ worse jobs than work in service, he realises.)

 

When they have walked for a while and are drawing nearer to the city centre again, Barrow suddenly stops, indicating a shabby old pub across the street, that is aptly named, _‘The Lost Son’_.

 

“Would you care for a drink, James?”

 

“Erm … aren't we going to miss the bus?” Jimmy asks, squinting at the wooden pub sign through the sheets of rain. The ancient-looking golden lettering on it is peeling off in places, but the depiction of the Biblical scene of the prodigal son being tenderly embraced by his father is still shining with vivid hues of amber, ruby and auburn as the sign swings in the wind.

 

“Nice Rembrandt copy, what?” Barrow smiles.

 

“Huh?”

 

“Never mind … And no, we’re not taking the bus this time,” the underbutler adds quickly. “We’re taking the train back.”

 

“But the train isn’t until the evening, and Mr Carson said to be ba–”

 

“Well, good job you’re with the underbutler, then. Carson trusts my excuses more than he does yours.”

 

“But the train will be dreadfully expensive.”

 

“Oh, trust me, I’d spend a small fortune just to not have to look at your green face in that rocking bus again.”

 

“Well, how _awfully_ kind of you, Mr Barrow,” Jimmy replies acerbically. “But if my stomach isn't up for a flipping bus ride, it certainly won't be up for alcohol,” he says, gesturing at the pub. “Beer on an empty stomach will probably just make me keel over and–”

 

“Then have a cup of tea, for Heaven’s sake!” Barrow snaps. (Barrow rarely ever snaps at him. It’s usually Jimmy who does the snapping. The man must be in quite the mood.) “Anyway … do whatever you like, James. I, for my part, don’t intend to stand around at the railway station for ages.”

 

Grudgingly, Jimmy follows him inside.

 

The pub is still empty this early in the afternoon, so it's just the two of them, and Jimmy feels self-conscious about that to the point of exploding. He sits down at a table and waits for Barrow to bring them their drinks, ducking his head and squinting nervously around the room. It takes him a moment to realise that the pub landlord isn’t staring at them because he thinks poorly of them or because they have done something wrong, but for a different (and much more harmless) reason: they are both in their respective work liveries, which are probably not his customers’ usual attire.

 

The place is so out of the way that Jimmy isn’t sure it even attracts that many customers, much less ones that aren’t dressed in rough workmen’s clothes but in white ties and Arrow collars. Add to that the fact that it is still early and the only people likely to frequent this place at this time of day will be sixth-formers skiving off school, and it becomes blatantly obvious why the pub landlord does a double take at Barrow’s elegant poise and practised politeness as the man buys their drinks.

 

A few moments later, the underbutler returns from the bar, carrying their drinks in a well-practised, effortless way, that reveals him as a man used to serving others.

 

“Thank you; I’ll pay you back,” Jimmy mumbles as Barrow sets down a cup of tea in front of him and takes the seat opposite his. For himself, Barrow has brought a glass of something that looks like Scotch.

 

“That’s … quite all right. As an underbutler, I’m higher up the food chain now than I used to be,” Barrow says with a dismissive smile, apparently having cooled down a bit from his earlier outburst. (He isn't bragging or boasting, and it's obvious he is just trying to obliquely point it out to Jimmy that he is not conferring too great a favour on him: none of this is coming out of his recently acquired inheritance. It’s all hard-earned, honest money provided by their common employer, and there’s certainly nothing shameful in taking any of it.)

 

Jimmy gulps. “Thank you, Mr Barrow.” Then he quickly directs his gaze away from the other man.

 

The pub landlord is still watching them through narrowed eyes from his side of the bar counter, alternating between polishing pint glasses with a dirty rag and scratching his rotund belly every other minute. His staring is made all the more disconcerting by the fact that the old pub dog lying next to the bar has the exact same suspicious look in its hazel eyes. It’s as if those two pairs of eyes were judging them from afar.

 

Jimmy feels like leaping to his feet half the time … which is obviously rather stupid; he can be seen socialising with Barrow, can’t he? Even if that landlord knew them, there wouldn’t be anything suspicious about their sitting there and chatting.

 

 _‘You’re just feeling nervous because you’re not used to sitting down while having your tea,’_  Jimmy tells himself. _‘Usually, you remain standing in Barrow’s presence.’_

 

Or maybe it’s just that he has been teetering on the brink of a nervous breakdown all day since that telegram arrived and can’t seem to work out how to calm down.

 

And there is another reason: he is embarrassed.

 

He always feels self-conscious around Barrow. That’s why he acts like a coiled spring around the man sometimes.

 

Deep down, Jimmy knows the reason why he always feels so uncomfortable around him. And surprisingly, that reason hasn’t got that much to do with what’s happened between them in the past.

 

Jimmy knows he isn’t good at this parenting thing, knows he isn’t the father the child deserves, knows he should be able to provide for Eddie. And he hates that he isn’t.

 

Being a man, a strong man, a proper man, is so important. Real men are fearless and brave. They know how to look after themselves, know how to care for their own flesh and blood. And they're always in control; they don't need to rely on anyone's help.

 

Jimmy wants to be that kind of man. Very much. And something inside of him quivers at the thought that he might be too weak, too helpless, inadequate, not good enough, not _manly_ enough, somehow.

 

He is doing his best not to show his fears, and he thinks he’s got the others back at Downton fooled. To the point where they all think he is too arrogant to bear.

 

No one thinks he is just insecure and weak; they all think he’s an arse. All of them. Except for Barrow.

 

And _that’s_ what makes Jimmy feel so uneasy around the other man: Barrow always looks at him with those I’ve-sussed-you-out-mate eyes, as if he wants to tell Jimmy that he is not going to be fooled by any of it, that he sees right through it.

 

It makes Jimmy want to jump out of his skin, to lose his temper and smash something into pieces. But Barrow seems to see right through Jimmy’s false arrogance and loud aggressiveness as well, and Jimmy feels almost naked in the man’s presence.

 

It’s not nice to realise that someone knows you’re not strong, knows you’ve got more mistakes and weaknesses than you would care to admit.

 

And now, Barrow knows about one more weakness, about Jimmy’s greatest weakness, too.

 

Jimmy doesn’t want to owe him anything, and for some reason that he doesn't understand, it makes him angry beyond reason that Barrow has helped him so much today, that he has brought him an umbrella and his coat, that he has paid for the bus and given money to Mrs Petersen … It makes Jimmy feel as if he isn't in control, and that feels awful.

 

Barrow always seems in control – even in the darkest hours of his life (that, as Jimmy has to admit in shame, had undoubtedly been Jimmy’s doing) the man had held his head high.

 

There is something about the underbutler that Jimmy can’t quite put into words. Something that shows the man had to learn very early in life to look out for himself. As if he is staying in control of his own life by sheer force of will.

 

Barrow is a survivor, a cat that always lands on its feet, chest out, chin up.

 

Jimmy knows that it is this quality that he himself is lacking in. And from the way Barrow is looking at him from across the table right now, it is obvious that Barrow knows it too.

 

Jimmy quickly takes a sip of his tea, feeling its warmth spread throughout his body in a calming way. Well, at least the tea has been a great idea, Jimmy has to admit.

 

Barrow is regarding him quietly over his whisky glass, greyish blue eyes half-closed, as if trying to work something out, as if debating with himself whether to say something or not. Then he shakes a cigarette out of his battered packet, lighting it and inhaling with a small sigh. (Talking and smoking seem to go together with him.)

 

Jimmy watches those deep red lips close around the cigarette, press against the paper wrapping with a barely audible sucking sound and release a long plume of smoke.

 

Then Barrow asks almost offhandedly, “So, that’s where you’ve been going on your days off, eh?”

 

“Yes,” Jimmy replies hoarsely; over the course of the day, his voice has somehow turned even rougher than it usually is. By now, it sounds almost as hoarse as back then, when it was breaking during adolescence.

 

“And that is also the reason why you didn’t want to move to France,” Barrow observes, directing another grey cloud of smoke towards the ceiling.

 

Jimmy just nods unhappily.

 

At that, Barrow gives a low chuckle and throws him a sidelong glance, smiling wryly and shaking his head to himself. “Never pictured you as a father.”

 

“Well, I didn’t either, if that helps,” Jimmy grinds out bitterly.

 

Barrow just raises an eyebrow at his sudden outburst.

 

“It’s not like we wanted it to happen,” Jimmy sighs, trying to calm down. “We just weren’t … weren’t …”

 

“Careful?” Barrow prompts nonchalantly, arching a sarcastic eyebrow and letting another plume of smoke curl up from his lips.

 

One part of Jimmy wants to shout, _‘Well, there’s one thing you won’t ever have to worry about!’_

 

But he manages to keep himself in check and just nod glumly. (No reason to show Barrow that he is seething on the inside right now. And much less reason to bring up that … that affliction Barrow suffers from. This conversation is embarrassing enough as it is.)

 

“Where is the boy’s mother?” Barrow asks the only sensible question one should be asking at this point.

 

“She’s dead.” Jimmy is shocked at how little he feels as he says it.

 

But from across the table, Barrow suddenly throws him a look over his whisky glass that seems almost warm when compared to the way the man’s cold eyes usually pierce everyone. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

 

“It’s all right,” Jimmy says, thinking, _‘You’d be shocked to find out just how all right it is,’_ and feels guilty all of a sudden, guilty for not feeling anything, for not missing her.

 

Barrow’s voice sounds quite a bit softer when he asks, “What happened?”

 

“I don’t know if it was my mother who gave her the flu or if it was the other way round … Ironic, actually, to think that about a dozen people in our street died of it and Eddie survived. All these strong, healthy adults didn’t make it, but a little toddler, just a few months old, survived.” Jimmy feels his ribs clench helplessly at the thought and quickly takes another sip of his warm tea.

 

“Explains why you and Mrs Petersen are still scared,” Barrow says, casually flicking some ash off his cigarette.

 

Jimmy gives a shaky laugh. “Bit paranoid, I s’ppose.”

 

But Barrow just shrugs.

 

“I had only been back from the war for a few days when she died,” Jimmy continues. “And since we had got married in such haste – shortly before I was called up – we never really got to see that much of each o–”

 

“You were _married_?!” Barrow asks, nonplussed.

 

“Well, yes, of course. What did you think? That this is an illegitimate child I’m hiding there?”

 

“Well, you _are_ hiding him,” Barrow points out with another shrug. “What do I know? Maybe that’s the illegitimate son of some duchess you’ve managed to bed somewhere.”

 

“I’m hiding him because no employer would’ve hired me if they knew,” Jimmy hisses. “I’d be in the soup if Carson ever found out … It’s hard enough as it is, what with me being unable to get into his good graces. If he ever finds out about it, I’ll be getting my marching orders … And don’t be silly! A duchess? We’re not the kind to embark on affairs with duchesses and the like.”

 

For a moment, just a split second, it looks as if Barrow might say something in reply to that last remark, but then the man just bites that perfect red lip of his and remains silent, quickly sucking on his cigarette again, cheeks hollowing at the strength of the drag.

 

The lip of the teacup feels smooth under his thumb, Jimmy realises absently as he rubs it for some reason, watching the mesmerising abandon with which Barrow (that dashed bastard!) is smoking. Then he clears his throat, suddenly remembering what they have been talking about.

 

“No duchesses or anything like that,” he elaborates quickly. “Nothing illegitimate about it whatsoever. She was a neighbour of ours. The daughter of a seamstress.”

 

“Did you love her?” Barrow asks softly.

 

“No,” Jimmy replies with a challenging look at the other man. _‘Don’t you dare judge me for that!’_

 

“And you married her?”

 

“Oh, come on. It’s quite common for people to marry out of duty instead of love.”

 

“Don’t really see why,” Barrow mutters under his breath.

 

“What was I supposed to do?” Jimmy continues hotly, not paying any attention to the other man. “She was only seventeen when … when I got her into trouble. I couldn’t have very well left her to her own devices, now could I? I had to do the right thing.”

 

”Oh, my! James Kent is a man of honour,” Barrow mocks under his breath.

 

It takes all of Jimmy’s willpower not to punch the man in the face right there and then. (Or to smash the heavy ceramic ashtray over his head … anything to wipe that smirk off his face.)

 

“Oh, do stop it!” Jimmy scowls. (Being scoffed at by a smug invert isn’t exactly at the top of his priorities for the day.) “She’d told me she would get rid of it. What was I supposed to do?”

 

And just like that, Barrow’s grin fades away. “That,” he points out calmly, “would actually have been illegal.”

 

 _‘Well, you would know about things illegal,’_ Jimmy thinks, managing to bite back the words and shrug.

 

“Don’t get me wrong,” Barrow snorts. “I won’t pretend it bothers me terribly where their ‘innocent little souls’ go when they’re being done away with. But how did she want to go about it?”

 

“She was only a few weeks along. Said she knew about this back-alley abortionist who’d do it with a coat hanger.”

 

Barrow at least has the decency to wince, but otherwise he remains silent.

 

“But I just … I just …” Jimmy gulps for air for a moment. “I just couldn’t have that happening. I told her right on the spot that I’d marry her. Said I would take care of her and our child for the rest of our lives. Just turned out the rest of _her_ life was quite short …”

 

All traces of his earlier grin have disappeared from Barrow’s face as he puts out his cigarette in the ashtray. “You’re a father _and_ a widower!” he states the obvious, shaking his head in wonder.

 

Then he cocks his head to one side and measures Jimmy with a strangely contemplative look.

 

After a minute or so, the man abruptly averts his eyes, tearing them away from Jimmy’s face and staring out the window, at the way the raindrops are trailing down the stained-glass pane. “How old were you back then, anyway?” he asks quietly.

 

“I turned twenty shortly before Eddie was born.”

 

Jimmy isn’t sure at first if he hears the other man right because, suddenly, Barrow draws a deep breath, distant grey eyes still gazing outside, and says in a low voice, that might or might not be breaking, “God, Ji-James!”

 

“I half hoped for it to go the other way,” Jimmy continues quickly, intently peering into his teacup.

 

“Other way?” Barrow looks over to him sharply – a new, still unlit cigarette stuck between his lips – then lights the thing with a deft movement of his ungloved hand.

 

“For me to die in the war,” Jimmy elaborates, “and for her to receive a widow’s dole to feed our child. But then the war was over sooner than we had expected, and I had survived it unharmed.”

 

For a few moments, nothing can be heard other than the rain pattering against the window and the soft sucking sounds as Barrow inhales smoke from his cigarette.

 

“Eddie was born while I was away. Not even a full seven months after our wedding,” Jimmy continues quietly. “So my mum just went and told the neighbours he had been born a bit prematurely … I didn't even get to see him until he was three weeks old when I had 72 hours of leave. The next time I saw him was when the war was over. He was already able to sit up and even stand for a bit. And not too long after that … everyone fell ill …”

 

They remain silent for a few moments, Barrow smoking and Jimmy draining the last of his tea. Somewhere behind them, the soft sounds of snoring can be heard; apparently, the dog has fallen asleep.

 

“So, is all of this the reason why you’re so anxious to get promoted as quickly as possible? Is this why you are so ambitious?” Barrow enquires eventually, swirling the amber liquid around in his whisky glass.

 

For a moment, Jimmy feels as if something got stuck in his throat. “Yes,” he admits finally. “What little inheritance I had is almost gone. And that dragon of a landlady keeps raising the rent for that rathole Eddie lives in … Mrs Petersen’s been going without pay for some weeks now.”

 

“And here I believed you were just self-absorbed,” Barrow says casually. “I thought you were snapping at everyone because you’re easily irritated and detached from us all … Now it turns out you’re just distracted … distracted and worried. You’re desperate to get ahead to support your child.”

 

“Not that I’m particularly good at that,” Jimmy says bitterly.

 

Barrow throws him another unreadable glance over his whisky glass. “You know … when I said I didn’t picture you as a dad, I didn’t … I didn’t mean to imply you were a bad father,” he says quietly.

 

“You might as well,” Jimmy replies unhappily, trying to ignore the stinging in his eyes. “Because I _am_. A bad father, I mean.”

 

He is surprised when he sees how resolutely Barrow is shaking his dark head. “If you think that, you’ve never seen a truly bad father,” he says quickly. “When I look at you, I don’t see that. At all. … What I do see, however, is a young struggling father … _too_ young to have this kind of burden on his shoulders, but desperate to make it work. A young father, _that’s_ what I see.”

 

“Not just someone who looks like he could be the boy’s older brother?” Jimmy mutters, wedging his too-short thumbnail into a gap between the boards of the wooden table, studiously avoiding to look at Barrow.

 

“That too,” Barrow admits with a barely perceptible smile. “In a way, yes. But that’s actually quite–” The man suddenly bites his lower lip, obviously stopping himself from saying something. “It’s not a bad thing,” he corrects himself quickly. “It doesn’t mean you’re a bad parent.”

 

They remain silent for a minute or so, the underbutler smoking another cigarette and looking as if that were the most interesting thing in the world.

 

“You know,” Barrow finally breaks the silence, “he’s a lovely little chap.” And there it is again: that rare, private smile Jimmy has seen on the man’s face earlier.

 

“I know,” Jimmy chokes out, his heart swelling with pride and pain at the same time, his eyes stinging badly.

 

Barrow is still smiling that unfamiliar, warm smile. “There's just this one thing, James … Please tell me my ears don’t stick out like an elephant’s.”

 

“I really don't know how he got that idea in his head,” Jimmy laughs, an inexplicable sense of carefree lightness overtaking him as he squints his eyes at the other man’s ears. “They look perfectly all right to me … But you know how children can be sometimes; they live in a world of their own and see things … differently.”

 

They both laugh quietly, shaking their heads.

 

And suddenly, Jimmy knows that however cross he might be with Barrow for helping him out so much today, for the umbrella and the coat and the bus fare, for making Jimmy squirm at the thought of being in Barrow’s debt even more now, however much he hates to feel so beholden to the man, however much Jimmy is embarrassed by all that the underbutler has done for him, he cannot for the life of him bring himself to feel the same way about the fact that the man has helped Eddie so much today, has examined the boy and calmed him down and just generally been there for him. He cannot bring himself to resent Barrow for doing any of this. As much as all the other things have hurt Jimmy’s pride, this is the one thing that doesn’t annoy him in the least, the one thing that he feels nothing but helplessly grateful for and immensely relieved about.

 

It is at this point that Jimmy realises that he really wants to hug the other man. (From wanting to punch him in the face to longing for the man’s embrace in under thirty minutes, that’s Jimmy down to a tee!) If it weren’t for Barrow’s obvious discomfort with touching him, Jimmy would probably actually consider doing it. And not only to show his gratitude, but also because he really needs it all of a sudden. Because suddenly, there is this strong yearning for a friend, a true friend, to lean on, this inexplicable longing for an embrace from someone with strong arms and broad shoulders, this shocking need to hold someone (or maybe even _be held_ by someone) for a brief eternity, eyes closed and forgetting his sorrows, to just be in the now, to belong somewhere for a change. And Barrow seems to fit that bill perfectly, what with his tall, broad-shouldered frame and the absolute calm he exudes.

 

At that, something flashes through Jimmy’s mind: what if Eddie’s elephant analogy wasn’t so far off, after all? Maybe the boy just reacted (unwittingly) to some hidden quality in Barrow that has nothing to do with _actual_ elephant’s ears and all the more with some vibe Eddie picked up on without actually meaning to. Aren’t elephants supposed to be intelligent and calm and patient? Aren’t they supposed to be wise creatures that quietly endure all pain and suffering, yet never forget … and still somehow manage to remain the truest friends one will ever find in one’s life? Maybe Eddie saw something there that Jimmy didn’t … couldn’t until now. A little four-year-old boy and he picked up on something that his father had previously missed …

 

“It’s hard to imagine he was _this_ small when I first held him,” Jimmy states as a follow-up to his unvoiced thoughts, indicating the size of a tiny parcel with his hands. “And by now he’s …” Jimmy trails off.

 

Barrow’s quiet smile gets even warmer, and Jimmy suddenly remembers how he hadn’t even been able to hold his newborn son until the women in the house had shown him how to do it. ‘Careful with his head,’ they had said to the overwhelmed young father in his sweaty, dirty uniform. And he had smiled and marvelled at the tiny little person in his arms.

 

He startles out of his memories, noticing that Barrow is watching him. But just as Jimmy returns his gaze, the man averts his eyes, quickly stubbing out his cigarette and draining the last of his Scotch in one long swallow.

 

And that’s when Jimmy actually notices it … Why is the man drinking whisky, anyway? And in the middle of the day at that! Why isn’t he drinking a nice ale or something? Isn’t whisky at this hour supposed to be reserved for some sort of emotional turmoil?

 

It’s at this point that Jimmy realises that maybe, underneath that cool veneer of his, Barrow is astonished after all, that deep down the man is far more moved and affected by all of what he has seen today than he is letting on.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Back at Downton, Jimmy gets asked a few questions, of course, but nothing he can’t dodge. Even the girls throwing him worried looks from across the dinner table in the servants’ hall give up after a while. Now, if only Barrow keeps his mouth shut about it, then Jimmy might be able to pretend that nothing’s happened; they will all eventually forget about the whole ordeal with the telegram and chalk it up to some distant cousin of Jimmy’s falling ill or something.

 

For a brief moment, Jimmy worries if his secret is safe with Barrow. After all, with anyone else the underbutler would probably use it against them should the need suddenly arise. He would give them away or even blackmail them if it were to serve him somehow. But then, the man has probably still got a soft spot for Jimmy a cricket pitch wide and doesn't breathe a word to anyone about it all.

 

It’s just once – on the next morning – that Jimmy panics briefly, and that’s when Barrow’s usual seat at the breakfast table remains unoccupied.

 

“Where’s Mr Barrow?” he gets out between two unenthusiastic bites of his breakfast, watching with disgust as Alfred attacks yesterday’s leftover black pudding with more gusto than seems humanly possible.

 

“Mr Barrow is running errands for His Lordship,” Mr Carson states importantly. “ _Not_ that it is any of your concern, James.” Then the butler suddenly inclines his large head in Mrs Hughes’s direction and adds in a still remarkably deep, rumbling undertone, “Apparently, His Lordship’s opera binoculars are broken and needed to be taken into repair … _straightaway_ for some mysterious reason.”

 

“Well,” the Scotswoman speculates, knife cutting into her meal with practised precision, “with the Dullops joining us from London today, His Lordship will simply have remembered how useful they always come in in a box at one of those London theatres. Wasn’t there this one play he and Her Ladyship used to be so fond of?”

 

“‘Sweet Lavender’,” Mr Bates offers, slyly peering at Jimmy over his cup of tea. “I think Lord Dullop told him it’d be revived on stage sometime later this year … ‘While there is tea, there is hope’,” he quotes dryly with little inflexion in his voice.

 

At that, Alfred raises his teacup as if to toast the man. “Now, there’s a notion I can agree with, Mr Bates,” he announces happily around his mouthful of sausage, words almost indiscernible because of his stuffed cheeks, genuine smile playing on his face. Then he washes down the food with a healthy swallow of tea.

 

“Could you possibly chew any louder?!” Jimmy hisses at him lowly. But inwardly, he feels relieved that Barrow’s absence hasn’t got anything to do with him and their trip to York.

 

He tries to purge all worries from his mind and concentrate on the tasks of the day, spending the best part of the morning hauling around the luggage of their newly arrived guests, his back aching and his fingers stiff from being outside in the cold.

 

The rain is even worse today than it was the day before, which is probably down to the fact that the wind has picked up considerably over the course of the night and is throwing gusts of icy air and cold water into his and Alfred’s scrunched up faces as they work side by side to unload the motor car as quickly as possible.

 

As they drag the valises inside, they track water and mud all over the hand-woven Persian carpet, staining its lavish Oriental arabesques and palmette ornaments. Mr Carson almost blows a gasket at the sight, somehow managing, once again, to look more enraged by Jimmy than by Alfred.

 

Jimmy’s mood only improves when Barrow turns up sometime after lunch.

 

He stumbles across the underbutler in the downstairs corridor just as the man shakes the water off his umbrella.

 

Despite the umbrella, though, a cascade of raindrops has found its way onto his coat, and there are even a few stray droplets glistening diamond-like in his pitch-black hair – which looks rather fetching, some distant part of Jimmy’s brain provides, unasked.

 

Jimmy’s mood brightens considerably at the sight. (Well, maybe the fact that Barrow is positively beaming contributes to that as well.)

 

The man quickly looks around, clearing his throat, then pulls Jimmy aside. “Your son sends his love,” he says in a low voice.

 

“What?! … What the hell are you talking about?” Jimmy hisses, taking a concerned look around the deserted hallway, brows furrowing. “I thought you were getting a pair of binoculars fixed or something.”

 

“I _was_. See?” Barrow replies with a wry smile, pulling a pair of small theatre binoculars out of his coat pocket and lifting them up to his eyes for a split second as if to demonstrate that they are back in working order.

 

It is a short moment in which Jimmy is so transfixed that he forgets to breathe because of the way the underbutler looks all of a sudden.

 

The man is standing there, face turned to him in profile, dark head tilted slightly to one side, pale hand holding the elegant silver-plated, ivory binoculars up to his eyes, looking, for what it's worth, like an illustration in one of those magazines that the maids love to flick through in the evenings.

 

Yes, it flashes through Jimmy's mind, standing there like this, Barrow is just one pair of white glacé gloves away from resembling one of those dashing gentlemen depicted in their advertising sections.

 

Pictures that – whether they entice readers to try out an innovative shaving knife made of stainless Sheffield steel, a new, more effective kind of starch powder for detachable collars or some novel radioactive toothpaste that ‘strengthens your gums and bleaches your teeth, giving your smile that certain glow’ – invariably show dapper gentlemen clad in exquisite bespoke suits, patent leather shoes and white spats, dressed as if they’re about to attend a performance at Covent Garden, their perfectly coiffed hair slicked back and shiny, cigarette dangling casually between their long, elegant fingers, holding themselves with effortless grace, haughty smiles playing on their insanely handsome features …

 

Yes, as far as Barrow’s looks are concerned, he is easily on par with such legendary dandies as Max Beerbohm and Boni de Castellane, possibly possessing even more handsome poise and distinction. Perhaps the man should consider a career change, Jimmy muses. After all, there must be hundreds of illustrators, and artists in general, licking their chops for a model like him …

 

“See? They’ve got new lenses now … And anyway, it was a nice excuse to go into York today,” Barrow says with a smile, lowering the binoculars again and making Jimmy snap out of his thoughts.

 

“And you’ve visited Eddie?” Jimmy asks quickly, feeling guilty for thinking about men in magazine ads instead of his sick son.

 

Barrow nods. “I thought it’d be a good idea to check up on him on my way back here.”

 

“Right,” Jimmy clears his throat. “How is he?”

 

“Much better. He hasn’t needed the doctor; the fever has broken overnight, and he’s got a runny nose now that makes the water garden over at Fountains Abbey look desertlike by comparison. He’s got snot all over my sleeve,” Barrow says proudly, as if that were some kind of achievement.

 

“Sorry,” Jimmy chuckles, a great sense of relief washing over him. Suddenly, he can picture it all: Barrow drinking tea with Mrs Petersen, the two of them swapping stories and comforting Eddie, trying very hard not to smile at the boy’s whining.

 

Somewhere deep down, Jimmy also knows that Barrow probably hasn’t taken back the money intended for the doctor, has maybe even gone behind Jimmy’s back and left some more of the folding stuff while Jimmy wasn’t looking. He feels uneasy at the thought, but his relief is too strong right now to argue. “Thank you … thank you for doing all of this for my boy, Mr Barrow,” he says quietly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

 

“I’ll see if I can check up on him tomorrow again,” Barrow replies.

 

“And how do you want to manage that?”

 

“Oh, you know …” Barrow shrugs mock-innocently, dimple threatening to show in his cheek. “His Lordship has got _a lot_ more errands to run in York than he’s currently suspecting,” he grins slyly. “Also, I could always break something accidentally … again.”

 

And suddenly, Jimmy can just see him: the manipulative Mr Barrow, constantly plotting and scheming, always getting people to do what he wants, and he feels himself smile involuntarily at the image. “Anything for the greater good, eh?”

 

“Exactly,” Barrow says, pretending to be deadly serious, eyes sparkling with mischief, though.

 

It’s strange, but somehow Jimmy feels better knowing that now there’s someone he can share his secret with, an accomplice to shoulder part of his burden, a secret confidant to talk to should he ever be out of his mind with worry for his son again, or be paralysed with fear of being found out.

 

“Your boy misses you,” Barrow interrupts his thoughts. “I had to promise him you’d drop by on your next half-day.”

 

“Of course,” Jimmy replies throatily. “Did he ask you to tell me anything else?”

 

Barrow seems to hesitate for a moment. “Yes … yes he did. He asked me to tell you something.”

 

“What?” Jimmy asks, a tad impatiently.

 

“‘I love you’,” Barrow says softly with a wistful expression on his face that’s something between a flicker of a smile and a shadow of sadness … and disappears down the corridor, taking the smell of rain and cigarette smoke with him.

 

 

 

\---

 

Their newly-arrived guests are dull, Jimmy thinks, just the usual rich and mind-numbingly bland aristocrats. Both of them, husband and wife, are condescending, arrogant Londoners, who manage to be so boring that they make polishing silver spoons look interesting by comparison.

 

Their valet isn’t boring.

 

At all.

 

Jimmy senses the man means trouble with every fibre of his body the very moment Mr Wright sets his brogue-shod foot in the house and instantly dislikes him. The girls have started to giggle sillily whenever the visiting valet walks into the servants’ hall, which makes Jimmy want to throttle them with his bare hands. But at least Ivy is so preoccupied with the man now that she temporarily forgets to throw Jimmy her usual dozen or so soulful looks a day. So, at least that’s good news.

 

The fact that Lord Dullop’s man doesn’t pay her any mind has obviously escaped her attention. It hasn’t escaped Jimmy’s, though.

 

He’s also noticed that Wright always looks at Mr Barrow whenever he asks something, as if waiting for the underbutler’s approval, and Jimmy doesn’t like this development one bit.

 

It starts on the first evening when Wright sits down in the servants’ hall to regale the wide-eyed maids with tales of the dazzling, glittering capital … of its night clubs filled with boisterous jazz music, thick smoke and frivolous girls in skimpy dresses, dancing ferociously on the tables, slurping champagne out of their shoes and sniffing cocaine off the naked chests of Negro saxophone players or some equally ridiculous thing … (Jimmy isn’t really paying attention.) Wright is lucky to get away with telling bawdy stories like this, anyway. If Mr Carson were present, he wouldn’t.

 

In any case, Wright then proceeds to claim that he has once caught sight of Lady Rose dancing the tango in one of those West End clubs.

 

“And you know,” Wright says with a little wink at the girls, “with the shorter hemlines these days, you could see not just the long seam on the back of her silk stockings …” This draws a shocked gasp from his audience. “… but also the entire length of her legs, all the way up to her suspenders, every time she was executing a _sentada_ ,” he adds, after a short pause for emphasis, in that annoying Southern accent of his that has Jimmy gnashing his teeth.

 

It’s as if Wright were screaming, ‘Look at me, man of the world!’ – so obviously is he showing off.

 

It makes Jimmy want to throw up.

 

And anyway … why is everyone at the table looking so scandalised? Jimmy can’t really see what’s so grand about women’s stockings. They’re perfectly ordinary pieces of clothing, aren’t they?

 

And then it suddenly happens: Wright gives a wry smirk and adds, “Not that I was looking that closely, mind. I’m not _that_ fascinated by _women_ dancing the tango,” giving Barrow an almost shy look out of the corner of his eye as if to gauge the underbutler’s reaction to this remark, like a puppy awkwardly beseeching its owner to pay attention to it.

 

Barrow, in his corner, doesn’t seem to have noticed it, engrossed in his newspaper as he is.

 

For Jimmy, however, this is the moment that he officially starts to hate Mr Horace Wright with a burning passion.

 

To his utter surprise, this sentiment is more than shared by Mr Carson, who, on the first day, takes one look at Wright’s shoes, his gaze travelling down the somewhat loud stripes of the man’s trouser legs, and starts to resemble a very put-out Zeus about to throw a thunderbolt.

 

The thing is that the visiting valet is sporting a pair of rather flashy wingtip-style black-and-white brogues.

 

And, to add insult to injury, the man then mistakes Carson’s sharp glance for interest and tells him, with a touchingly sincere smile, that the shoes were, in fact, a generous gift from Lord Dullop (something the old man bought for his valet on a trip to New York, apparently), which in turn makes it virtually impossible for the butler to object to them or to even bring up the topic again.

 

So, in the end, Mr Carson is forced to resort to just muttering to himself for the next few days whenever he thinks no one is listening.

 

One evening, Jimmy is just passing the butler in the downstairs hallway when he hears the man grumble in his deep voice, “Well, I never! … Co-respondent shoes in the dining room? Of all the nerve! … What’s next?! Wearing bathing suits to church? Or … cowboy hats to the Royal Albert Hall? Or … or … knickerbockers on the Woolsack? Or … or … or …”

 

“… vests and caleçons in the King’s Guard,” Barrow finishes his sentence for him as he comes walking round the corner.

 

“Exactly,” Carson agrees gravely, giving the underbutler a nod. “The gall of it! The impertinence!”

 

“Unacceptable, yes! I agree: it’s an absolute disgrace,” Barrow tuts disapprovingly, the sombre expression on his face _almost_ convincing, his eyebrows furrowed in mock consternation. (How he even manages to keep a straight face is anyone’s guess. Jimmy, for his part, is furiously biting his lip behind Carson’s back to stop himself from bursting out laughing.)

 

“ _That_ it is, Thomas; that it is,” Carson whispers, still in utter dismay. “I hope I can trust you to keep an eye on this … this individual? I wouldn’t want him to make a spectacle of himself in front of the family.”

 

“Oh, _absolutely_ , Mr Carson,” Barrow assures him, inclining his head – if only to hide the fact that he can barely contain his grin.

 

To Jimmy’s surprise, Mr Carson doesn’t seem to notice that Barrow is only feigning indignation (that the man is, in fact, secretly smirking about his superior’s love of decorum) and says, “I knew I could rely on you, Th– Mr Barrow,” throwing his deputy an almost warm parting look, that speaks of his approval of the underbutler’s ever-impeccable attire, and even giving him an awkward, grandfatherly clap on the shoulder, before trudging down the corridor and out of sight.

 

Apparently, offending footwear beats deviant sexual nature by a mile on Carson’s list of most egregious abominations, Jimmy muses, sniggering inwardly.

 

 _‘Men who enjoy kissing other blokes as a pastime? Regrettable, mildly disturbing inconvenience that calls for a discreet, speedy cover-up … Men who are daring in their sartorial choices? Impending apocalypse threatening to plunge mankind into a new dark age,’_ he thinks, not even noticing that he is still grinning at Barrow until suddenly Wright comes strolling round the corner like a lost puppy looking for a home.

 

 _‘I shouldn’t be smiling about any of this,’_ Jimmy realises with a sudden jolt. _‘Barrow’s … ailment is no laughing matter. It was I who got assaulted by him, after all.’_ But he simply cannot stop himself. Mr Carson’s outrage is just too funny sometimes. Jimmy can feel a wide grin stretch across his face, and from the way Barrow is smiling brightly back at him, it’s clear that the other man is still inwardly laughing about their superior as well.

 

Their eyes stay locked like this for what seems like a brief eternity, sparkling with this shared secret joke that only the two of them are in on. And Jimmy counts it as a small personal victory that Barrow doesn’t avert his eyes for even a second, letting the strange Mr Wright pass them by without so much as a sideways glance in his direction.

 

The Dullops’ valet, for his part, sports a rather befuddled expression on his long face as he disappears down the corridor, probably wondering what has the underbutler and the footman smiling like this in the middle of a hallway, what private joke it is that has the two men wrapped up in this little bubble of theirs, oblivious to the outside world, locked in a perfect moment of silence and light.

 

When they finally look away from each other, Jimmy is left with a feeling of happy giddiness in his chest, that is followed by a quiver of childish triumph at the realisation that Barrow hasn't even paid attention to Wright’s pleading puppy-eyed look.

 

But Wright doesn’t seem to give up so easily.

 

On the next day, sometime in the afternoon, when Jimmy is standing outside with Barrow, inhaling the other man’s cigarette smoke and wondering when it’s going to start raining again – the dank grey air hanging heavily over the building and threatening to release the next shower any minute – the visiting valet launches a new ‘let’s-get-to-know-one-another’ attack, proving to be the persistent type.

 

In spite of the damp cold, it’s so peaceful and quiet outside that Jimmy hopes he can get away with another minute of hiding out here and enjoying the silence. He desperately needs a few moments of respite, a chance to catch his breath and forget about work (and all the other worries that are consuming him) for just a little while.

 

And he knows what it is that lets him rest his mind, that helps him unwind and forget reality for a bit.

 

It’s Barrow’s smell.

 

By now, Jimmy is used to the cigarettes. To that and to the man’s fresh, unobtrusive cologne. It's familiar. It's comforting … The way it blends with the woollen smell of his underbutler livery, with this warm and pleasant scent of fabrics and yarn … With the lingering scent of Barrow’s brilliantined hair … sandalwood and something … something underneath that … the actual smell of his hair, clean and soft. And if Jimmy breathes in really deeply, he thinks he can even sense the smell of Barrow’s warm skin …

 

He closes his eyes, breathing in and out … in and out. It makes him feel … he can’t even name the feeling exactly … It makes him feel … _calm_. Yes, it must be calm! What else can it be? It comforts him, makes him feel safe and at rights with the world. At home. As if something were suddenly right that was previously wrong. And it causes this slight quiver below his sternum, this unnameable thrill right through his bones, that’s addictive, yet mysterious and– But no, no, no, that’s nonsense, of course! It’s calming; that’s what it is. Nothing else.

 

Jimmy opens his eyes into slits to secretly peer over at Barrow, at those deep red lips and the way they suck on that cigarette.

 

The only sound he can hear is that of Barrow’s lips closing around the cigarette and the man’s long exhale … then his lips pressing against the paper wrapping again … a greedy drag … and another slow exhale … press … drag … exhale … press … drag … exhale …

 

It’s hypnotic. It’s poetry. It’s almost frightening … And together with the smell of the imminent rain, it turns Jimmy into this perfectly tranquil man that he rarely ever gets to be except in these moments of otherworldly stillness with Barrow.

 

Jimmy feels himself shiver slightly in the cool, humid air but doesn't dare to move closer to the other man, let alone bump his shoulder into Barrow’s.

 

Despite the cold, he is determined to stay another few minutes out here though, the old brick wall cool against his shoulder blades, inhaling the smoke from Barrow’s cigarette and covertly watching the man’s lips …

 

It suddenly strikes Jimmy that it’s a shame, really, that no woman will ever know how lovely those lips are, how red and soft and …

 

The door to the courtyard opens a bit too loudly, disrupting the perfect silence and making him flinch. Several rain-soaked crows take off towards the foggy white sky with loud, scolding croaks.

 

When he throws Barrow another covert glance out of the corner of his eyes, he realises that the man has raised one of his black eyebrows, for there is a certain tall bashful valet sauntering towards them.

 

“Er … hullo there,” Wright starts as he walks up to them.

 

 _‘Oh, bugger off!’_ Jimmy thinks and pointedly ignores the man, defiantly crossing his arms in front of his chest.

 

“What is it, Mr Wright?” Barrow asks around his cigarette.

 

“Oh, I was just wondering if …” Wright’s eyes keep darting back and forth between Jimmy and the underbutler. “… if you could tell me where the shoe brushes are kept, sir.”

 

 _‘Oh,’_ Jimmy thinks. _‘I think I know what you would like to be brushing, mate.’_

 

“Oh, you don’t have to do that, Mr Wright,” Barrow replies dismissively but not impolitely. “Just leave the shoes outside the door for the hallboys to shine.”

 

“You see,” Wright disagrees with a genuinely warm smile in Barrow’s direction, “Lord Dullop is very particular when it comes to shoes, especially, his bespoke oxfords. He fears someone might get scratches on them.”

 

 _‘If you don’t watch it, I’ll get scratches on you,’_ Jimmy thinks darkly, glaring at the man.

 

It’s obvious the valet just wants to initiate a conversation with Barrow; from the way he’s gazing at the underbutler, it seems as if he’s just one roll-over away from a puppy again. And Jimmy doesn’t like it one bit.

 

“All right, then,” Barrow concedes, not unfriendly. “We keep the brushes in the broom cupboard under the stairs.”

 

“Thank you,” Wright smiles again, giving the underbutler another one of his shy little looks.

 

Barrow flicks some ash off his cigarette. “Was there anything else, Mr Wright?”

 

 _‘If there is, I’ll have your bollocks, Wright,’_ Jimmy thinks. _‘And not in the way you’d like me to.’_

 

“No … No, there, er, wasn’t,” the valet seems to come to his senses and beats his retreat.

 

“Bespoke oxfords, my arse!” Jimmy mutters nastily out of the corner of his mouth. “Dullop-dollop!”

 

Barrow snorts so hard at that that smoke comes streaming out of his nostrils. “I take it you don’t like our guests too much?” he asks, dimple appearing in his cheek. (Jimmy likes that dimple. Very much. He just can’t seem to get it to appear as often as he’d like it to.)

 

“Spot on,” Jimmy grumbles. “I don’t. They’re just so full of themselves, aren’t they?”

 

Barrow doesn't say anything, just extinguishes his cigarette and shakes a new one out of the small cardboard box.

 

Wright hasn't made it inside the house yet, standing across the yard and chatting with Ivy – or rather listening to her chat. His whole posture looks as if _he_ wants to leave to check up on those shoe brushes, and the way she is holding herself seems to indicate that _she_ is insisting on smiling and talking at him to keep him from going inside just yet.

 

“Now, that explains why Alfred hates the lad so much,” Barrow says somewhere beside Jimmy, pointing ahead with his cigarette still stuck between his white slender fingers.

 

“Well, Alfred’s not alone on that!” Jimmy blurts out hotly, biting the inside of his cheek a moment too late, suddenly aware of how this must have sounded. And that's not what he’s meant at all, right? ( _Right?_ ) “I mean … I mean, Carson hates him as well, remember?” Jimmy hurries to correct himself quickly.

 

Barrow plucks the cigarette from his mouth and releases a long stream of blue smoke while the cigarette is dangling between his index and middle fingers, then says, “True.”

 

“You don’t _really_ disapprove of Wright’s shoes, do you?” Jimmy asks quickly to cover up for his earlier blunder. “You only said that to play along with Carson.”

 

A few tiny laughter lines appear around Barrow’s eyes; it’s the hint of a shadow of a smile. “They’re very nice shoes … Though perhaps more suited to a stroll around Bloomsbury than for working in the upstairs dining room,” he says diplomatically.

 

Across the yard, Ivy is still batting her eyelashes at the Dullops’ valet, even going so far as to gently touch him on the forearm.

 

“What does _she_ think she’s doing?” Barrow adds in a low voice. “Is that still friendly touching or already harassment?”

 

“I think you'll find it’s called _Horace_ -ment,” Jimmy replies with a deadpan face, making Barrow snort violently again.

 

They watch the girl talk to Wright for a few more moments. (Jimmy actually _feels_ himself squint as he takes in their guests’ valet again.)

 

Wright is tall; Jimmy’s got to give him that. Also, he’s never seen a valet wearing spectacles before. (How the man’s weak eyesight didn’t prevent him from getting the job is beyond Jimmy, but the girls seem to love the circular eyeglasses perched on the man’s nose. In fact, Jimmy has overheard Daisy say that they make the man look ‘a bit bookish’, ‘like a librarian’ and ‘sort of sweet’, with Ivy sighing and adding, “Yes, he looks so scholarly, doesn’t he? He can be my Mr Rrright all he wants.”)

 

Well, yes, Jimmy thinks, perhaps he _is_ overreacting a bit. Lord Dullop’s man doesn’t seem to have a mean bone in his body, and his brown eyes shine with warm and intelligent humour from behind his glasses. His giraffe-like, slightly awkward lankiness is made up for by the fact that he has got a sincere smile and a friendly manner with everyone. In short, it’s obvious why everybody likes him. Well, everybody except for Mr Carson and Alfred, that is.

 

(The other day, Jimmy actually witnessed Alfred explode in Ivy’s face. “I’m tall _too_ , you know. Taller, really!” the footman had exclaimed, throwing out his chest and drawing himself up to his full height, which had made him look like a spindly telegraph pole with a burning bird's nest at the top. Ivy hadn’t seemed much impressed though, keeping her eyes on the guests’ handsome valet instead.)

 

So, on the whole, Wright doesn’t leave much to be desired. He’s got his heart in the right place; he keeps Ivy off Jimmy’s back, and, as a fun little bonus, he drives Alfred insane all day long.

 

All in all, Jimmy should be absolutely thrilled to have him around, and yet, for some mysterious reason, he isn’t. For some reason that he doesn’t fully comprehend, he just doesn’t want the man to … to befriend Barrow. It’s irrational, yes, but does that make it less real? Should he maybe get over himself and stop acting like this? But why does it hurt almost physically to even think about it?

 

Jimmy throws Barrow a sidelong glance, feeling his throat work once, twice, then plucks up all his courage and asks, “So, is he your type, then?” indicating the valet still standing across the yard.

 

“What?” For a second, it looks as if the cigarette is going to drop from Barrow’s mouth.

 

“Well … do you think of him _like that_?” Jimmy mumbles, feeling his cheeks burn despite the chilly wind. “Do you think he’s handsome?”

 

Barrow shoots him a pointed glare. “We’re not discussing this,” he bites out between gritted teeth, his jaw clenching.

 

They never talk about Barrow’s … proclivities. And apparently, the man isn’t going to start now.

 

Jimmy feels his entire face burn almost painfully as he watches the irritated underbutler crush his cigarette under his heel and hurry off, towards the house. A moment later, the first raindrops hit Jimmy’s face.

 

 

 

\---

 

What has he done? Why, oh, why has he done it?

 

Jimmy lies in his bed, unable to switch off, thoughts of Barrow plaguing him, a flurry of questions rolling through his mind like the blurry, silhouetted images off a whirring black-and-white film reel at the Ritz Cinema in Thirsk.

 

_‘Why did I have to ask Barrow something so personal when everything was going so well?’_

 

Ever since Jimmy has let the man in on his secret, the two of them have grown quite a bit closer even if he didn't really realise it until just now.

 

And now he has ruined everything! Just because he had to be so dashed curious about Barrow’s private business!

 

 _‘It is an unspeakable, horrific, pitiable condition, and Barrow is only doing the decent thing in keeping quiet about it,’_ Jimmy reminds himself.

 

His nature has condemned the underbutler to a wretched fate: to the lonely life of a monk, to a life in which he is doomed to never even talk about his perverse and forbidden desires. And it’s admirable that he has managed to stay sane and functional as a human being, locked up in his inner prison as he is. Everyone should applaud him for the restraint he exercises and his tact on the subject … What Barrow definitely doesn’t need is people prodding him and asking far-too-intimate questions, reminding him of how he can’t ever have a normal life and has to resign himself to one of solitude and celibacy.

 

 _‘You, Jimmy Kent, are a blithering idiot for not realising how much this would affect him, for bringing it up at all,’_ Jimmy reprimands himself. _‘God knows if he’ll ever be able to forgive you. You have ruined everything with your big mouth and your rash behaviour. Congratulations! So much for easing the tension between the two of you. And there’s only a fortnight left before he leaves to live somewhere else.’_

 

Jimmy pulls the scratchy blanket closer around himself, vowing to himself to be a friend, a true friend, to this man in need of companionship.

 

The bed linens feel damp and uncomfortable against his cool skin, and he can practically feel the hairs on his arms stand up in the chill air of the musty-smelling attic bedroom. (It’s a shame, really, that the expensive Continental eiderdowns are only meant for the upstairs bedrooms. He could really do with one right now.)

 

The rain drumming incessantly on the roof above him reminds him of the day they visited Eddie in his fusty room in York, of how small, how fragile, his golden-locked boy had looked, of how frantic and terrified he himself had felt. (Jimmy feels himself shiver uncontrollably at the memory.) But it also reminds him of how secure and in control Barrow had seemed … And it is his friendship with _this_ man that he has just jeopardised!

 

He is so angry with himself that it feels almost logical to assign at least part of the blame to Wright. (If the man hadn't felt the need to parade his posh little behind around in front of Barrow, Jimmy wouldn’t have snapped, right? After all, why did the valet have to leer at him like Alfred does at Mrs Patmore’s _crème brûlée_ or Bates does at the idea of smarming up to his personal saint, Lord Grantham?)

 

Speaking of Alfred, the other footman is still fuming about Wright in his corner of their shared bedroom, his agitated voice mingling with the sound of the raindrops pattering on the slate-shingled roof above them. Jimmy has stopped listening about half an hour ago, and still, Alfred is going on and on and on about the Dullops’ valet.

 

“And then, that nitwit’s idiotic smile! Don’t even get me started on that,” Alfred seethes somewhere in the darkness.

 

“Yes … yes, _that_ ,” Jimmy replies non-committally, immediately zoning out of the conversation-turned-monologue again.

 

Is this how Eddie feels at night? Lonely, curled up in his rickety bed, lying in the dark and staring at the moving shadows on the ceiling? Or is that something only adults do? Will his son start doing that once he reaches pubescence and starts to mature, starts to hate his dad, to ponder the question why his father was never there for him? Jimmy thinks he felt something when Barrow met Eddie … as if … as if the two of them had instantly had a connection of some sort …

 

And now he had to go and ruin it all! Barrow will move away and their friendship will be over …  

 

Jimmy knows that the underbutler is currently finalising the deal with Murray – smiling and humming to himself every evening in the servants’ hall while Jimmy tinkles on the piano and broods about his life; the fact that Mr Carson hasn’t stopped frowning and muttering about it for days (“An underbutler owning a house? … unheard-of … improper …”) only seems to spur Barrow on, amusing him all the more, if anything.

 

So … Only a fortnight now until the man moves out. (Why the thought makes him so unbearably sad and squeezes his heart into a tiny, aching lump, Jimmy doesn’t know. After all, the underbutler will be here every day. He’ll turn up just before breakfast every morning and leave for his house late after the staff dinner. Nothing will change. Except for the fact that the man won’t be sleeping across the hall from him anymore. And that’s a thought that would have meant a great relief to Jimmy a mere six months ago. So, why does he suddenly dread it so much?)

 

“Oi! Are you listening?” Alfred’s still livid voice suddenly cuts through his thoughts.

 

“Er … yes. Yes, of course.”

 

“No, you’re _not_!” Alfred disagrees with a short snort of laughter. “I can practically _hear_ you making faces over there in the dark.”

 

“Oh, shut up,” Jimmy grumbles, throwing his pillow in Alfred’s direction. Judging by the sound, it misses him by a good foot or so and hits the wall with a soft, muffled thud.

 

“No, I won’t,” Alfred laughs again, throwing the pillow back and hitting Jimmy squarely in the face despite the semi-darkness in the room. “You weren’t listening to what I was saying.”

 

It takes Jimmy a few seconds to re-emerge from under the pillow; then he replies, “Yes, I was.”

 

“Oh?” Alfred mocks. “Well, what was the last thing I said, then?”

 

Jimmy frantically scrambles to come up with something, anything. It is a feeling strangely reminiscent of the one he had experienced every time he had made up excuses as a pupil at school to spare his buttocks a thorough caning from of a teacher or the headmaster, which sometimes had, but mostly _hadn’t_ worked, resulting in him having to bend over a desk and getting ‘six of the best’ on the seat of his trousers. “You, erm, you said … you were … you were talking about … about Ivy and Mr Wright,” he improvises quickly.

 

To Jimmy’s surprise, Alfred, good ol’ guileless Alfred, actually believes him. “Oh, so you were listening, after all? … Well, as I was saying,” the footman jumps right back into his rant, “what in God's name does she see in him?! I mean, have you seen those glasses? He’s probably too blind to even appreciate her beauty.”

 

 _‘Or too much of a daffodil,’_ Jimmy adds in his thoughts.

 

“Maybe there should be a ban on pretty people falling for blind people,” Alfred mutters. “It’s not fair.”

 

“Technically, he isn’t blind, though. Just short-sighted,” Jimmy points out cautiously.

 

“Why are you taking his side?”

 

“I’m not.”

 

“Yes, you _are_. Traitor!” Alfred growls, only half serious.

 

“Look! Is that mould up there?” Jimmy asks quickly, pointing at the ceiling above him.

 

“Just a cobweb. And don’t deflect.”

 

“I’m not deflecting. I don’t like Wright either,” Jimmy says truthfully.

 

“Yes, but Ivy does,” Alfred sighs, returning to his new favourite topic. “Lord knows what goes on in women’s heads sometimes. Honestly, they are strange creatures. First she fancies _you_ (even though you’re _tiny_ ); then she’s suddenly head over heels for this Wright cove. And the other day, she even said she thought _Mr Barrow_ was handsome!”

 

“Well, he _is_ handsome,” Jimmy mutters, if only on impulse.

 

The light in his head goes off one second too late – like the bluish light of a street gas lantern that only flares up after the lamplighter has poked the wick a bit with his long pole.

 

 _‘Uh-oh,’_ he thinks.

 

And the deafening silence from across the darkened room only confirms that he’s just said something stupid.

 

For once, he has apparently managed to render Alfred absolutely speechless. (And after half an hour of listening to the other footman’s tirade, at that!) Jimmy would almost congratulate himself were it not for the obvious slip-up.

 

But if Jimmy has learnt one thing in his life, it’s that to save your skin after any such lapse, you should never deny what you’ve said – quite the opposite, actually: you should repeat it with real conviction in your voice.

 

“Well, he _is_!” Jimmy insists, curling his naked, clammy toes into the cold sheets. For a moment, he counts his own breaths in the uncomfortable silence, listening to the rain continuing unabated outside.

 

Then finally, Alfred mutters darkly, “You should be the last person to make jokes about that, mate.”

 

“Well, er … er … If you asked the girls who they’d rather kiss: Mr Carson or Mr Barrow, what do you think their answer would be, hm?”

 

There is a short, contemplative pause.

 

“True,” Alfred admits finally. “That would be Mr Barrow, of course.” Then he suddenly starts laughing. “Not that the girls would have any luck with that.”

 

“No, Mr Barrow’s interests lie elsewhere,” Jimmy laughs shakily.

 

And just like that, the uncomfortable silence is back, with both of them biting their lips and staring at the rain-stained ceiling. It’s obvious _where_ Barrow’s interests lie; the man has made that very clear, after all. And it was Alfred, of all people, who got to witness it. So, it’s obvious, really, why they’re both suddenly shying away from saying anything.

 

“Why do you think he goes around kissing other coves,” Alfred breathes, “when he could have _any_ girl he wanted? … Hell, if he were thus inclined, there would probably be girls queuing up in front of his door … Not that I know what women even see in men,” he then adds quickly.

 

“Nor do I,” Jimmy assures him, just as quickly.

 

 _‘But it’s not exactly true, is it?’_ a small voice in the back of his mind whispers. Because it’s so obvious, really, why women like men. _Of course_ , they do! Why wouldn’t they?

 

Men are strong, confident and brave … What’s not to like? And if they're handsome, their beauty often has a certain edginess to it, a mesmerising toughness and roughness that women (at least, in Jimmy’s opinion) lack, no matter how pretty they are.

 

Yes, there is a straightforwardness and almost brutal assertiveness about men that makes them attractive in many more ways than just their looks. It is their raw aggressiveness, their spontaneity, the quirkiness of their humour, a directness and candour that Jimmy appreciates … Not even to mention the aspect of physical strength … There is a reason why all those sculptor chappies back in ancient Greece worshipped the male form, after all.

 

Yes, Jimmy sighs inwardly, it is obvious why women like men. He almost feels a bit envious of them. After all, it is much more difficult to find a suitable girl. If Jimmy were a woman, he would fall for a man in a heartbeat.

 

Not that Alfred needs to know any of this. He would just get the wrong idea. (Because it would be the _wrong_ idea, wouldn’t it?)

 

“As I said,” Alfred suddenly growls. “Half the time, you don’t know what’s going on in girls’ silly heads. And the other half, you don’t _want_ to know … Not that I know what goes on in Mr Barrow’s head either, but _that_ I really have no wish to know anything about. It must be abhorrent.” The rustling sound from across the room indicates that the footman is cringing or wincing in disgust.

 

“Oh, _absolutely!_ ” Jimmy agrees, going for a fervent tone of voice.

 

Secretly, however, he’s got to admit that he always wonders what goes on in Barrow’s head. The man just seems like such a mystery that it’s intriguing. But it’s not like Alfred needs to know any of this, Jimmy decides as they finally bid each other goodnight and fall asleep, dreaming of a future neither of them is sure of and a home neither has a chance of having …

 

 

 

\---

 

Their guests stay longer than expected. Upstairs, everyone assures them how wholesome their company is to the still-grieving Lady Mary (even though the recently bereaved widow hasn’t so much as left her room since they arrived).

 

Jimmy refuses to believe there’s anything wholesome about these snotty Londoners at all.

 

Lady Dullop, for example, has the most annoying accent he’s ever heard in his life. She’s been living in London for more than a decade now – ever since she married Lord Dullop – but she either can't or doesn't want to get rid of this ridiculous French accent that betrays her origins and sets Jimmy’s teeth on edge.

 

He gets a taste of her equally French temperament first thing when the motor drops the Dullops off on Downton's doorstep on the first day: Lady Dullop walks in, takes off her expensive, rain-heavy paletot and hands it to him since he happens to be the servant standing by her elbow.

 

Then she gives him a quick once-over through her long (probably false) eyelashes, and her little Cupid-bowed mouth breaks into an enigmatic smile. “Ah, bien sûr,” she states, “Il y a toujours un valet pédé … euh … de pied.”

 

And with these mysterious words, she hands Jimmy her cloche hat, a sable muff, a silk umbrella, and a fox (!) that she has just taken off from around her neck and stalks off, leaving him standing there with his mouth open and a pile of clothes in his outstretched arms – among them an entire dead animal, for it’s not just a fur collar or stole but the whole thing: four long paws, a bushy red tail, and green glass eyes staring up at him as if to say, _‘Mate, you’re going to have fun with this one.’_

 

On the next morning, when he is serving her and her husband breakfast, she once again manages to render Jimmy speechless when she announces that she doesn’t like the coffee he has just poured for her from the Meissen porcelain coffee pot on the table.

 

“Ze coffee eez too bitter, Jacques,” she complains, raising the thin, finely pencilled arc that is her eyebrow at Jimmy. (The fact that she insists on calling him ‘Jacques’ is more than just a little unnerving, but there is nothing Jimmy can do about that.)

 

He hurries to pass her the silver sugar bowl, which has been sitting on the table right in front of her, anyway. But after adding a few spoonfuls of sugar, she suddenly announces, “Now, eet eez too sweet. Beurk!”

 

She gives him a sulky pout at that, even going so far as to bite her plump, scarlet-painted bottom lip, making him wonder if she is really just complaining or … if this rather mature woman in her forties is, in fact, aggressively flirting with him.

 

Lord Dullop, for his part, doesn't seem to care, sitting there in his silk lounging pyjamas and velvet dressing gown, enjoying his first pre-breakfast cigarillo and flipping through the paper.

 

“Rrreally, Jacques!” Lady Dullop’s affected Gallic accent snaps Jimmy out of his thoughts as she continues to try to engage him in verbal foreplay. “Ze coffee in zeez cœntry! Tss tss tss! Eet tastes like dishwatœrrr. Nothing like _un petit noir_ in Paris, hein!” (She says ‘Paree’, omitting the ‘s’ at the end.) When Jimmy doesn’t respond, she adds, “Jacques, mon petit lapin, ‘ow about you bring me another?”

 

 _‘Or how about you just get used to drinking tea, seeing as you’re in England now, you stupid cow?!’_ Jimmy thinks, trying hard not to show that he is seething on the inside.

 

Out loud, he says, “Of course, my lad– madame. Will that be all?” When she nods, he gives a quick bow and turns around to head downstairs.

 

Behind himself, he can hear Lord Dullop turn a page and chuckle, “You know, chérie, if you just wanted to take a look at his bottom, you could have just asked him to turn around. You know I don’t mind.”

 

 _‘Not so boring after all, eh,’_ Jimmy thinks. _‘Seems as if their notion of marriage is a bit … French, as well.’_

 

Through the open door, he can still make out Lady Dullop’s answering laugh. “No chance zere, mon amour.”

 

“And here I thought you had given him your best ‘Déshabillez-moi’ look,” her husband replies nonchalantly.

 

“Oh, but eezn’t eet obvious zat Jacques eez like my brother in zat …”

 

In what way he allegedly resembles Lady Dullop’s _cher frère_ , Jimmy will never find out, though, since he is already quickly jogging down the worn-out wooden stairs towards the kitchen.

 

Over the next few days, he remains largely puzzled by Lady Dullop’s behaviour. He is no stranger to female attention, of course. But then, the straightforward way in which their French guest expresses hers doesn’t bear the slightest resemblance to the manner in which all those young, wide-eyed English girls usually (and unfortunately) bat their eyelashes at Jimmy.

 

Maybe it’s a cultural thing … Because the way in which she half-attacks, half-teases, half-claims him for her amusement (and in front of her apparently indifferent or even consenting husband at that!) is really something else! And Jimmy wonders, more than once, if Lady Dullop’s aggressively cheerful flirting maybe just makes him so angry because some deeply repressed part of his mind actually _likes_ the lewd comments directed at him, because he secretly revels in her abrasive attention, because there’s something in that good-humoured arrogance that he unwittingly craves … A certain something, an unselfconscious confidence, that is so different from the oohing and awing of all those innocently blushing girls that usually cross his path. Maybe some hidden part of him enjoys the forbidden thrill of being pursued like this (even if it’s mostly in jest on her part). Maybe he desires it even …

 

It’s a frightening thought, really, and every time it creeps up on him like a ruffian in the dark, he quickly banishes it from his mind, getting angry at himself. What good does it do to dwell on these things after all?

 

But it’s not just Lady Dullop and the valet Mr Wright who are a bit odd.

 

Lord Dullop himself is quite the character, too. Apparently, one of his grandfathers or great-grandfathers (Jimmy can’t be arsed to remember it) was Chancellor of the Exchequer at a time when the Almighty was still busily sawing away on Adam's rib … well, a long time ago, anyway. Long before Jimmy was even born.

 

In any case, that would explain why the man is so unfazed by all that is going on around him that he’s constantly threatening to fall asleep mid-conversation. Maybe it’s just in his blood to react with stony-faced stoicism to whatever turmoil or drama is happening around him and to whatever theatrics his wife and his valet have in store for him.

 

On the evening following Jimmy’s nightly conversation with Alfred for example, when they’re serving dinner upstairs, Lord Dullop actually _does_ doze off right at the dinner table, his old-fashioned monocle popping out of his eye-socket and flopping right into the _hors d'œuvres_ , gold monocle chain trailing in his _apéritif_.

 

Jimmy has to fight the urge to burst out laughing at that. _‘Well, maybe you should have chosen normal glasses like your valet. Monocles don’t exactly seem the safest type of eyewear when you find yourself so boring that you literally cannot stay awake listening to yourself,’_ he thinks, biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself from grinning and watching Lady Dullop’s fruitless attempts to discreetly remove the offending object from her husband’s plate with her oyster fork, which ends up with her digging it even deeper into the various dainty amuse-gueules on his plate.

 

“Eustace!” she hisses out of the corner of her mouth. “Eustace, wake _œp_!”

 

Behind her, Jimmy silently vows to himself that, should his eyesight ever fail with age, he will never consider wearing a monocle, seeing as it holds such potential for embarrassment.

 

(“The Dullops’ daughter Salomé wears a monocle too,” the smug Mr Wright has told them all earlier, downstairs in the servants’ hall. Though what he’s meant by that cryptic remark and why Barrow responded to it with a snort eludes Jimmy.)

 

Meanwhile, Lady Dullop has started fidgeting in her seat, and Jimmy has to admit that he quite enjoys the spectacle unfurling before his vigilant servant's eyes and likes the sight of her embarrassed suffering – if only out of a feeling of revenge for being put through all that inner turmoil for her amusement.

 

He correctly predicts the moment when she discreetly starts to turn her head in the direction where he is standing to attention behind her to give him a pleading look and quickly turns away … just in time to make it seem as if he hasn’t noticed her predicament, busying himself with the Venetian wine decanter on the table.

 

It’s a thing of extraordinary beauty, made of blue Murano glass that sparkles in the light of the chandeliers and makes the deep red claret inside shine with an intense violet glow, that turns as black as an onyx stone when the decanter is set down in a dark corner. Jimmy admires the thing every time he has to pick it up to make his rounds and refill all the wine glasses on the table with the _Grand Cru_ du jour, but this time he enjoys it even more, knowing that he has just abandoned Lady Dullop in her quest to wake her husband without anyone noticing and has left her with no option but to rudely elbow the man in his rotund belly, thus disrupting the flow of conversation around the dinner table.

 

He suppresses a devious smirk the moment the room suddenly goes quiet at Lord Dullop’s surprised gasp and bows over yet another wine glass, revelling in his revenge.

 

If Mr Carson were present, he wouldn’t have dared to ignore a guest like that. But ever since Carson and Barrow have started taking turns presiding over dinner, Jimmy has become aware of the fact that sometimes his shenanigans will go unpunished.

 

For a moment, he briefly panics when he sees Barrow freeze out of the corner of his eye. Maybe he has misjudged the situation and will get in trouble now. After all, Barrow must still be livid over Jimmy’s indiscreet questioning of him on the day before. But then he notices that certain glint in Barrow’s cool eyes and knows he is out of danger. For whether the underbutler is still cross with him or not, he is most certainly amused by what he’s just witnessed.

 

But apparently, Lady Dullop doesn’t exactly need Jimmy’s help to thoroughly affront everyone at the table, as he finds out a few minutes later while serving the main course.

 

Ever since the Dullops’ have arrived, Lady Rose has been pestering them with questions about life in the metropolis, curious to know every little detail now that she is effectively ‘banished to Siberia’, as she puts it. So, it doesn't come as a surprise when, once she has asked every question about London she can think of, she suddenly exclaims, “So, what’s going on in Paris, then? That dress you're wearing, is it from your _Rue de la Paix_ couturier? I think Paris is so exciting!”

 

Lady Dullop just shakes her pretty head a few times at that and exhales sharply through her nose. “Oh, I ‘aven’t been in Paree’ in ages, Rosalie,” she replies dismissively. “It’s ‘orrible zeese days. Full of Americans.”

 

Jimmy thinks he can actually hear the sound of his jaw popping. Everyone at the table freezes in shock as well, and a suspiciously Irish-sounding, “Oh, dear!” floats across the table from Mr Branson’s direction.

 

Across from him, Lady Grantham has, for once, lost that smile that Jimmy has always thought was sewn onto her face permanently.

 

 _‘Well, well,’_ Jimmy thinks, staring at Lady Dullop’s back from where he is, once again, standing behind her. _‘I’d be willing to bet Lady Grantham is wondering right now how on earth the Jacobins could forget to chop off your ancestors' heads while they were at it.’_

 

Then Jimmy and the rest of the attending staff are treated to the second-hand embarrassment inducing experience of having to watch Lady Dullop back-pedal and apologise to Lady Grantham while everyone else at the table busily pretends to be _extremely_ interested in the _confit de canard_ on their plates.

 

The only one who looks as if he hasn’t got a worry in the world is Lord Dullop, who still appears to be fighting boredom, monocle precariously trembling in his eye-socket once again.

 

Later, the conversation turns to the grieving Lady Mary and the fact that the young widow has once again refused to grace them with her presence at dinner.

 

“ _Pauvre_ _fille_ ,” Lady Dullop trills. “Per‘aps she suffers from _mélancolie_?”

 

“That is very likely, yes,” Lord Grantham nods – if only to keep the polite conversation flowing. “But there isn’t anything we can do about it, I’m afraid.”

 

“Oh, but zere _eez_!” Lady Dullop disagrees with a laugh, once again proving that her foreign instincts are woefully out of touch with how an Englishman declares the discussion on a particular matter closed and how he words his disapproval of a certain topic of conversation. “You know, my sister Prudence ‘as always ‘ad zeese … dark moods. But now that she ‘as found zis brilliant nerve specialist, zis ‘ypnotist, in Paree’, she is all bettœrrr. Zis man ‘as completely cured ‘er of eet by means of ‘ypnosis. ‘Ee eez such a marvel! You see, ‘ee uses zeese spectacular methods of Mesmerism, magnetising ‘is patients and such.”

 

From where he is standing behind her, Jimmy can see a polite, yet helplessly sceptical smile stretch Lord Grantham’s pained face as she goes on and on about ‘energetic transferences’, ‘universal harmony’ and ‘magnetic sleep’.

 

Jimmy himself is wondering why any physician would want to _magnetise_ anyone of all things. _‘Good luck with getting Lady Mary to do that,’_ he thinks quietly. _‘She’s got enough on her plate without spoons and trays getting stuck to her at inopportune moments as she walks by.’_

 

“As for electrotherapy,” Lady Dullop continues, undeterred, “zere are lots of sanatoriums zat offer galvanic baths. Zey are supposed to be ‘ighly stimulating, revitalising and ‘olesome. I mean, electricity eez such a mysteerious force, after all.”

 

“Indeed,” Lady Grantham says politely, while Mr Branson secretly rolls his eyes.

 

From the way Lord Grantham is touching his greying temple in between his sips of wine, it’s obvious that he is getting a headache.

 

Jimmy, for his part, is suddenly assailed by a rather Carson-ish thought. _‘Maybe it’s not her; it’s us! Lady Dullop isn’t behaving outlandishly or rudely. It’s just that we’ve all been cooped up out here in the countryside for too long. We don’t know what people in the big cities are like anymore. She isn’t being impolite. This is what it’s like now. These are the new people.’_ It’s a strange and almost saddening thought, steeped in a quiet nostalgia, that suddenly makes him feel lost and very small. As if he, and with him all the people here at Downton, were stuck in a circular reel tin, caught on nitrate film, forgotten on the dusty shelf of some cinema somewhere. As if they were all mere spectres of a world long gone by.

 

“Anyway, my sister says zat what zis docteur eez doing eez really ‘elping ‘er,” Lady Dullop concludes her tale in the meantime.

 

Her husband, who has chosen this very moment to come to from his half-comatose state, turns to her and mutters so quietly that only she and Jimmy can make it out, “If you think that is _all_ your sister is doing with him, you’re blind, chérie.”

 

It takes Jimmy a moment to realise that there are probably two other people in the room who  must have heard this remark as well.

 

Because while he is still trying to mentally pick his jaw up off the floor, he can clearly make out that Lady Edith, who is sitting across from their guests, is … no, not looking shocked, quite the opposite, actually … The sly young woman is smirking, actually smirking, at the suggestive comment. ( _‘Does this mean she’s one of those new people now, as well?’_ Jimmy wonders.)

 

Behind her, a wide-eyed Alfred is standing with a puzzled expression on his face, as if still trying to work out what else Lady Dullop’s sister and her nerve specialist could have got up to.

 

“I’m sure you mean well, Claudette,” Lady Grantham interrupts the silent scene with a polite smile, “but I don’t know if there are any doctors like that in England.”

 

“Well, zere must be someone in London, no?” Lady Dullop asks, spearing a morsel of duck with her fork. “Oh, and therapeutic baths do ‘elp as well. You know, thermal springs and mineral watœrrr and all zat. You could send Marie to Bath or to Bagnoles-de-l'Orne. In Baden-Baden, zey even offer radium baths zeese days. You know, of course, ‘ow invigorating and refreshing radioactivity eez supposed to be for ze body and ze mind.”

 

(Later in the evening, in the servants’ hall, Mr Bates, that pretentious old prick, will laugh about this while listening to their retelling of the goings-on upstairs. “Anyone who knows their Dostoyevsky knows that people don’t go to Baden-Baden for the _baths_ ,” he will say. Jimmy doesn’t know anyone called Dostoyevsky and consequently has no idea what the man is going on about. It doesn’t escape him, though, that Barrow gives a sudden laugh at Bates’s incomprehensible joke. It even takes the underbutler a second to realise that he has just laughed at something his arch-nemesis has said, which is when he quickly schools his expression back into one of gloomy indifference and mutters to no one in particular, “Well, and also … hypnosis is quackery.”)

 

As the main course draws to a close, Lady Dullop manages to make one last faux pas for the evening. This time, it’s a particularly disturbing one, though.

 

“Poor Master Georges,” she sighs, once again disregarding their hosts’ express wish not to talk about this particular topic. “Well, on ze whole, ‘ee still got lucky, of course.”

 

That raises a few eyebrows around the table, but everyone remains silent, waiting for her to elaborate.

 

“Eet eez better zis way round, you know. With ‘is father dying and ‘is mother being zere for ‘im, I mean. Just imagine what would ‘ave ‘appened if eet were zee ozer way round. A child without a mother – zat’s just cruel. No child should be raised by a man. Zat would be almost criminal. A child without a mother eez like–”

 

This time, Lord Grantham’s fork actually falls onto his plate with a clatter. And from where Jimmy is standing, he can see that Branson’s face has gone as white as the damask napkin in his hand.

 

But he doesn’t even hear the ensuing apologies anymore, doesn't hear the desperate reassurances as Lady Dullop tries to back-pedal her way out of _this_ awkward situation too, doesn't hear the buzz of distressed chatter erupting in the dining room, doesn’t hear the words, ‘Lady Sybil’ and ‘poor widower’ and ‘motherless child’ floating through the air.

 

No, Jimmy doesn’t hear _anything_ anymore.

 

It’s as if his head has been pushed under water with brutal force in an attempt to drown him. He is standing there, swaying on his feet as an ice-cold dread washes over him … Because, yes, this is his worst, deepest, best-hidden fear. What is he even trying to do there? What is he trying to achieve by raising a motherless child? He’s a man, only a man, and his son doesn’t have a mother. It’s the worst cruelty of all. Something nature never intended. Something that makes God avert his gaze in anger and the angels weep with sorrow. A child being raised by a single father – what a joke, what a cruel cosmic joke. It’s not even about whether he is a neglectful, absent father or too young or too inexperienced in parenting. Hell, he could be the most well-meaning, caring, devoted parent in the world; it still wouldn’t matter one jot! He’s just a man. He’s not what his child needs. Because men aren’t made for that. They aren’t loving and affectionate; they aren’t nurturing and empathetic. And if he sometimes thinks he feels that he _is_ , well, then he must be mistaken. Yes, that must be it! He’s probably just lying to himself. It’s not in a man’s nature to express tenderness and warmth. And Eddie, poor innocent little Eddie, doesn’t even know he’ll never get the love he deserves. That’s what’s so cruel; that’s what’s so unjust, so painful and irrevocably tragic about it.

 

Jimmy feels his hands shake where they’re hanging limply by his sides, his palms getting sweaty against the fabric of his livery.

 

Every single one of Lady Dullop’s gaffes has been funny so far, a bit hair-raising, admittedly, and embarrassing, but, all in all, funny and playfully light-hearted. This one isn’t.

 

This one makes Jimmy sick to his stomach, turning the polished wooden floorboards under his feet into a wallowing ocean liner and making him heave.

 

This one isn’t funny; it’s true.

 

What she’s said is true. It must be. And it’s this sad truth that rises from the banal and mundane around him like the head of a giant mythical beast from the black sea.

 

And it makes him tremble, gripping him by his throat and choking him. It’s as if his throat is suddenly constricting around his pain, tightening and making him feel as if he’s about to mutely scream into a storm, that’ll wipe out all sound and, with it, all meaning behind his existence. Because what is he, after all? There’s nobody who really needs him. His child doesn’t. Nor does anyone else. He’s a nobody. A joke.

It’s only when he slightly and inconspicuously leans up against the wall with his shoulder blades to stop himself from swaying that he suddenly notices Barrow’s face, realising that, in breach of protocol, the man’s eyes are fixed on him from across the room.

 

Jimmy knows that the staff aren’t allowed to do that; they’re all supposed to stare straight ahead and pretend to be furniture.

 

And yet, Barrow’s looking right at him. And not with concern or pity, but with a smile on his face. With a smile so warm, so kind, so open and uncharacteristically unguarded, that it calms Jimmy down instantly.

 

It’s a smile that, across the room and over the din of human chatter, says, _‘You are all right. There’s nothing wrong with you. All of this doesn’t concern you. It’s not about you. You’re not them. You don’t have to be. You’re you. And that’s all right.’_

 

Barrow’s smile feels like a lifeboat, a safety buoy, an outstretched hand reaching out to a drowning man, and it floods through Jimmy like a wave of warmth and reassurance holding him up and his head above the surface, above the darkness, above the pain. _‘You’re not alone. You’re never alone.’_

 

It's a precious, silent, yet powerful moment, in which time is trembling in both their naked hands, pulsing warmly like something living, like a wounded animal healing itself through the silent music of their shared smile.

 

It’s a moment in which Jimmy realises that the other man isn’t angry with him, that he probably never was and never could be.

 

It’s the first time since his parents died that Jimmy feels that some things in life are unconditional, and you don’t have to do anything to earn them, and they’re as certain and firm as the ground you walk on and as reliable as gravity that holds you in its palm.

 

“Barrow, what are you smiling about?”

 

Lord Grantham’s voice cuts through their little bubble of light like a gramophone needle abruptly scratching across a shellac record. And all chatter in the room suddenly dies down, all heads turning to look at the underbutler. Indeed. How dare he! Why is he smiling when they’re discussing such serious and sad topics?!

 

Jimmy knows how a servant is supposed to respond in such a situation. ( _‘It’s nothing, my lord. I’m sorry.’_ ) And he knows that, having apologised in that manner, one is expected to straighten up and fix one’s eyes on a distant spot on the opposite wall again.

 

Which is why he is so shocked and surprised when Barrow doesn’t, in fact, comply with that rule, but opens his mouth and says in a steady voice, “I was just thinking of Lady Sybil, my lord. And I can’t help it but smile whenever I think of her. Because she always brought out the best in all of us.”

 

The silence that has descended upon the room is almost deafening, and despite his own shock, Jimmy dares to take a quick look around.

 

There’s an expression of mild befuddlement on Lord Grantham’s face, but he doesn’t exactly look put out by Barrow’s rather unorthodox intrusion. No, if anything, it seems that he isn’t entirely sure how to react, furtively glancing at his wife for help.

 

Lady Grantham, for her part, seems to have made up her mind already, her more laid-back American instincts winning out apparently: she is smiling motherly at the underbutler, a deeply touched expression playing on her usually serene face, her eyes shining with unshed tears and unmistakable gratitude. And yet she is keeping her countenance, not a single tear staining her creamy cheek as she delicately places her knife and fork on the now empty faïence plate in front of her to indicate that she is finished eating.

 

What Barrow’s just said there isn’t even an outright lie, Jimmy muses. Everyone knows how strongly the underbutler had always felt about the Crawleys’ youngest daughter.

 

“Ah, right … ahem …” Lord Grantham finally coughs a bit uncertainly.

 

Then suddenly, everything happens very fast, and Barrow breaks at least three cardinal rules at the same time: he speaks up without being addressed first; he interrupts his employer, and, to make things even worse, he offers his opinion on matters of the family, which is something that is strictly forbidden for anyone working in service. It’s usually tolerated – even encouraged – as long as it happens in private between a master and his valet, or the lady of the house and the lady’s maid. It is, however, a serious affront to the house (even grounds for dismissal) when done in the dining room, and in front of strangers at that. You never, _never_ , shoehorn your way into the conversation. Everyone knows that.

 

And yet Barrow does it. He just comes right out and says it. Unblinkingly. Without hesitation. His voice isn’t even wavering when he interrupts Lord Grantham and tells his stunned audience, “Also, if you don’t mind my saying, my lord, I think Lady Sybil would be tremendously proud of how Mr Branson is holding up. After all, he fulfils the Herculean task of raising a child and being a loving parent with admirable and exemplary devotion. I’m sure there are plenty of children who would think themselves lucky to have a father like him. We should all applaud him, and Lady Sybil would too.”

 

By now, it’s got so quiet in the room that you could hear the proverbial pin drop. Alfred, who is standing not too far away from Mr Barrow, has apparently forgotten about dinner etiquette as well, his mouth hanging open in a most unbecoming fashion, eyes as wide as saucers.

 

Mr Branson, for his part, is smiling gratefully at his former colleague, probably a bit confused as to what has brought on this sudden vote of confidence from a man who, not so long ago, refused to even dress him. Confused and overwhelmed too, his eyes looking a bit glassy and red around the corners, his throat working as if he’s fighting tears. For a moment, it almost seems as if he is going to leap out of his seat and fling his arms around the underbutler in a most inappropriate display of emotions, that would have Mr Carson fainting with horror if he were present. Thankfully, the Irishman then seems to think better of it.

 

Jimmy knows, of course, that this whole speech wasn’t directed at Branson at all. He knows why Barrow has thrown him a cautious look out of the corner of his eyes just now. He knows Barrow was talking about _him_. About him and Eddie. He knows that the man has, in breach of every rule under the imperial sun, comforted and consoled Jimmy right in front of the world and his wife, has told him to be proud of himself as if they weren’t both standing in the middle of the dining room. And Barrow, a man usually so intent on self-preservation, has done so in such an unashamedly brazen, daring, yet underhand way that Jimmy is suddenly left speechless, surprised and, yes, even humbled to be able to call this prudent-impudent man a friend.

 

But Barrow hasn’t just seen red and lost his head there. No, it looks quite deliberate actually, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing. He doesn’t look desperate; he looks surprisingly self-controlled. Like someone who knows that the stakes are high, but also that he's got the better hand. It’s as if, by tearing all the rules to shreds, he has just established, once and for all, who the alpha dog of the pack is around here. It’s as if he’s just told his employer to his face that he’s in charge – an employer who, for his part, still looks as if he doesn’t know what’s just hit him and for what reason.

 

They all know, of course, that every house is secretly ruled by its butler. The butler is the one even the upstairs lot listen to. And most earls, dukes and marquesses would probably freely admit that, when it comes to who’s in charge in their household, it’s always their butler – closely followed by their wife. And that they themselves come fourth or maybe fifth on that ladder, somewhere between the housekeeper and the cook.

 

Barrow, for his part, has now made sure that everyone knows where he sees himself in the pecking order. He has said it loud and clear: he is the butler’s right hand, and whenever Carson isn’t present, _he_ is the dark power that nobody should cross.

 

From the look on Lord Grantham’s face, it’s quite obvious that this message has just hit home. And the man doesn’t even look unhappy about it. Probably because an underbutler taking control of things can turn out to be quite the relief to a gentleman: Barrow has made sure Lord Grantham knows where Barrow sees his place in this household, but he has also shown his employer that he can trust him to defend the family against any attack from an outsider, has shown the whole family that they can rely on him to make sure that a remark such as the one Lady Dullop has made won’t go unpunished, thus making himself the crown prince in the line of succession to Carson’s throne, and Lord Grantham seems to appreciate that.

 

Jimmy can’t help it but admire the brazen audacity Barrow has, once again, shown in committing this well-calculated affront. Anyone else would have been given the sack for interrupting the family dinner in such a disrespectful manner. Barrow, however, has just pulled off the triple feat of showing Jimmy his support at the precise moment when he needed it most, of putting a cheeky _comtesse_ in her place for speaking ill of the family, and of making sure Lord Grantham knows where Barrow sees himself should Carson ever retire.

 

And all of that, with just a few words, a sure smile and a cool head. It is admirable, this way in which he seizes an opportunity and just claims something for himself, always in control of the situation.

 

The stare-down between Barrow and Lord Grantham continues, and everyone in the room waits, with bated breath, if the underbutler’s going to get chastised for speaking out of turn. Then finally, Lord Grantham averts his eyes first – uncertainly as if to say that he has just handed over power to his adversary, apparently resigning himself to playing second, nay, third fiddle to this man for the rest of his life.

 

“Well, if that’s all, my lord,” Barrow says snidely, cutting through the thick silence, “I’ll go check what’s taking so long with the pudding course.” He gives a short bow (that isn’t fooling anyone; Lord Grantham seems to have understood now that Barrow has just taken over) and exits the room in a few sure strides.

 

Across the table, Lady Rose elbows Lady Edith, jerking her thumb in the direction of Barrow’s retreating back, and asks in a giggly whisper, “So, is _he_ already spoken for _or_ …?”

 

\---

 

There are mainly three reasons why lingering in Downton’s kitchens like a fruit fly in a wine glass is the best way to spend what little free time one has got as a servant: One, there’s always free food, exotic foreign delicacies, that they usually don’t get served downstairs, but that one gets to taste in Mrs Patmore’s realm. Two, it’s the simplest way to spend time around Ivy, who can mostly be found somewhere in the vicinity of the pots and pans.

 

Both these reasons are extremely important to Alfred, but they’re not exactly at the forefront of Jimmy’s mind whenever _he_ wanders into the kitchen.

 

It’s the third reason that Jimmy finds most compelling: it’s the only room downstairs that ever gets truly warm in winter.

 

Which is why he sighs unhappily upon discovering that Daisy is already putting out the fires for the night when he strolls by the open door. (Also, he can hear Alfred’s voice in there, pestering her for leftover food from upstairs, and judging by the girl’s infatuation with the tall ginger menace, Jimmy just knows that Alfred will get what he wants from her, meaning that the kitchen is currently not the best spot for unwinding.)

 

Jimmy shivers at the thought of having to spend the evening in the ever-cold servants’ hall with its draughty, single-glazed cellar windows. But since the option of leaning against the old cast-iron cooker in the kitchen and enjoying some peace and quiet isn’t on the table anymore, he decides to get himself warmed up by playing a few jaunty tunes on the piano and wanders back to the servants’ hall.

 

The evening starts out as so many others have over the past six months, with Barrow meditatively sucking on his cigarette and reading the day’s newspaper and Jimmy letting his fingers stumble listlessly through Ravel’s _Une barque sur l’océan_ , which proves to be quite a challenge, what with said digits being all stiff from the cold and refusing to obey him throughout the faster passages. Some of the notes get swallowed, his articulation lacking clarity; the fast sweeping runs (especially the ones in the right hand) sound sloppy and slurred together, and his slipping, tripping fingers don’t seem to know how to trill thirds properly anymore. (Deep down, Jimmy knows that it’s not just the cold. The piece is just too difficult for him. That’s the sad truth. His fingers have got slower and clumsier over time, weaker and less precise.) It's extremely frustrating, of course. Because he can still hear it in his head the way it’s supposed to sound, but then, when he plays it, it's all so dulled and fuzzy that it makes him want to scream. It’s like forgetting one’s native language, painful, frustrating and soul-destroying. A nightmare of helplessness and humiliation. And there’s nothing he can do about it. It’s not like he gets the two or three hours of practice a day that any pianist would need to master this, and without constant training, his fingers will just continue to weaken. Then, one day, he won’t be able to play a simple children’s song anymore. It’s the sad, bitter truth. God knows if he’ll ever be able to teach his son to play the way his father once taught him.

 

He hits a few wrong notes, forgetting the three sharps at the beginning of the stave, and cringes at the dissonance, then jerks his hands off the keyboard angrily as if they’ve been burnt. _‘This sounds awful, anyway. Stupid Ravel! Stupid, repetitive, maritime tinkling nonsense!’_ Jimmy huffs inwardly.

 

“God, don’t you just hate the French?!” he exclaims out loud, impatiently tearing the sheet music off the music stand and throwing it onto the piano top with a loud slap. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Barrow raise a questioning eyebrow at him. When he notices Jimmy looking, though, he quickly buries his nose in his newspaper again.

 

Jimmy remains sitting at the piano, emptily staring at the keys, wondering what tune to play to brighten the mood. Above him, the wind is splattering the window pane with raindrops and gravel.

 

Why they all think that he’s a lucky boy, Jimmy doesn’t know. But they really seem to think that. A golden boy, who got lucky in every aspect of life: looks, dancing skills, piano prowess …

 

In reality, he is painfully aware of his shortcomings, of how he's getting progressively worse at playing the piano or remembering his parents’ faces, of how everything is slipping away from under his fingers like desert sand, of how he is desperately trying to hold on to something and yet failing as everything fades into nothingness … _‘Practising the piano is like rolling a stone up a long, steep hill,’_ his father had always said. _‘The moment you stop, the stone starts rolling down again.’_ And sometimes, Jimmy wonders if maybe his entire life will consist of nothing but Sisyphean tasks, of nothing but uphill battles and downward spirals. An endless chain of frustrations till the day he dies … And he hates it when people call him pretty. It’s a slap in the face more than anything. The last and crowning insult to his manhood.

 

He lets his fingers rest on the piano keys for a moment without playing and shivers at the realisation of how cool they feel against his skin.

 

The one moment in his life that had felt different had been when he had first held his son, for Eddie had stepped into his life like a little ray of sunshine. But even at that, Jimmy is failing. Maybe because parenting is a bit like catching sunbeams with your bare hands. (At least, that's what it feels like to him.) Somewhere deep down, he suspects that he is failing at it because he is alone in this endeavour. Because you can’t catch a sunbeam with your bare hands alone; you need help. A mirror by your side to cage the light. To let it freely bounce back and forth between reflective surfaces, that hold it safely and protectively, yet let it dance and play and shine with unbounded radiance. But that’s a line of thinking that he’s uncomfortable with because …

 

At this moment, Alfred barges into the room like a crazed giraffe. “Look what I’ve got!” he exclaims triumphantly, holding up a large tin tray. “Petit fours! Lady Dullop didn’t like them. And His Lordship claims this evening's dinner conversation has given him indigestion.”

 

“Too much information, Alfred,” Barrow mutters around his cigarette, releasing the words sideways out of the corner of his mouth.

 

For a moment, Alfred just stares at the underbutler as if he doesn’t quite understand why Lord Grantham’s bowel movements shouldn’t be a suitable topic of conversation; then he clears his throat, face suddenly lighting up again. “So, do you want some? They’re delicious.”

 

“Actually, I’m with His Lordship on that one,” Jimmy bites out acerbically, noticing how Barrow throws him a sharp look out of the corner of his eyes. But Jimmy just can’t stop himself. It all comes flooding back to him: the things Lady Dullop has said, this overpowering feeling of helplessness and guilt …

 

“You sure?” Alfred asks incredulously. “You know, they really _are_ –”

 

“No! I said _no_! For Christ’s sake, Alfred, will you _stop_?!” It’s not even just a matter of Jimmy’s feelings from earlier pouring out again. And it’s certainly not just the fact that he _has_ eaten already, still full from the gravy-soaked dinner they’ve had earlier, and doesn’t want any French nonsense being shoved in his face. It’s not that. It’s at least _not_ what makes Jimmy explode in Alfred’s face like this, feeling his own features contort in wild rage and his head flush bright red with white-hot, pent-up anger as he snarls at the other footman. No, it’s not just that.

 

It’s the fact that he gets offered things that he will never be able to purchase for his child. And little children deserve to be spoilt – at least, every once in a while. But he can’t afford to buy Eddie any sweets or toys or anything frivolous at all, not a single striped caramel on a stick, nothing. And it breaks his heart that he’s got to say no to those big blue eyes every single time. Because once, just once, he would love to give in and make his son beam with giddy joy about some ridiculous trinket (an animal colouring book or some silly penny toy or a small tin of boiled sweets). But he can’t. It pains him almost physically that he can’t. Because he would want to. Desperately. And here, Alfred is standing, practically plying Jimmy with exquisite pastries, that those snotty, good-for-nothing upstairs brats didn’t even _want_? It makes him want to scream, shout and ball his fists at the injustice of it all.

 

As it turns out, Alfred is much more patient and good-natured than Jimmy would have given him credit for. (Or maybe he is just used to Jimmy’s bouts of temper by now like a docile donkey plodding uphill with an air of stoic suffering.) “Well, you’re really missing out, you know. They’re good,” he says, then adds with a smile and a twinkle in his eye. “No wonder you didn’t grow properly if you never eat any sweets.”

 

“Sweets don’t make children grow faster, you twat!” Jimmy snaps nastily at him, not even realising that the remark was probably just a jovial dig; he suddenly feels like bursting out of his skin with frustration. “There _are_ children who grow just fine without constantly getting sweets shoved in their faces. Children like E–”

 

“I’ll have some of those petit fours, Alfred, if you please,” Barrow quickly speaks over Jimmy, shooting him a sharp glance, that says, _‘What are you doing?!’_

 

Alfred guilelessly forks over about half of his strange French biscuits to Barrow while Jimmy feels himself gulp a few times, eyes wide with shock at his own blunder. _‘God, I’m practically coming apart at the seams,’_ he thinks, rubbing his sweaty palms on his trousers.

 

“Well, I think I’ll head up to bed,” Alfred announces, cautiously gauging Jimmy’s reaction as if waiting for him to snap again. “Try not to wake me when you wander in in the middle of the night, Jimmy.”

 

“I promise I’ll let you snore on peacefully,” Jimmy mutters, but his voice sounds small now, having lost its bite.

 

“I _don’t_ snore,” Alfred protests with a mock glower.

 

“Oh, yes, you do. It’s no wonder I sleep so badly all the time.”

 

“You’re one to talk,” Alfred huffs in amusement. “It’s you who keeps me awake for hours on end with your bloody sleep-talking, after all.”

 

“ _What_?!” Jimmy’s heart slams into his throat so violently that he thinks it’ll surely burst out of his body for a moment.

 

“Yes … You know, you almost sound pained whenever you talk about her in your sleep,” Alfred laughs. “She must be quite the looker, this Mrs Petersen of yours.”

 

“Mrs Petersen?” Jimmy’s heart stutters to a sudden halt in his chest. From the corner of his eye, he can see that Barrow’s hand has frozen on its way to one of the petit fours on the table.

 

“ _Missis_ , eh?!” Alfred whistles, raising his eyebrows. “So, she a married one, then? … ‘Cause that’s where you go on your days off, innit? Oh, don’t worry; your secret’s safe with us. Right, Mr Barrow? … Good night, Casanova.”

 

It takes Jimmy a few moments to recover as the tall footman exits the servants' hall with a happy chuckle on his lips and saunters off.

 

He can feel his eyes blink owlishly a few times, open and shut, open and shut, trying to come up with something to say, then finally settles on mumbling, “Thank you, Mr Barrow.”

 

The underbutler doesn’t look at him when he replies, “That’s quite all right, James,” eyes intently fixed on the same paragraph in his newspaper for just that bit too long to make his indifference seem believable.

 

“Sometimes I really don’t know how to thank you,” Jimmy blurts out against his better judgement.

 

Something in the corner of Barrow’s mouth looks a bit softer for a moment, a bit warmer, and the man clears his throat twice, as if not entirely sure how to respond. “That’s– … Don’t worry about it, James. Just … just play me something again.”

 

Jimmy feels a strange flutter below his sternum at the idea of playing something specifically _for_ the other man, at the realisation that the man has actually asked him outright to do so.

 

“Something that _isn’t_ French, that is,” Barrow adds with a twinkle in his eye, as if to cover up his earlier sincerity with a joke.

 

“Of course,” Jimmy replies – it comes out a bit hoarse – and quickly starts flicking through the remaining sheet music on the piano stand.

 

A dog-eared copy of Liszt’s _Waldesrauschen_? Too difficult. (He doesn’t want a fiasco like earlier.)

 

Chopin’s _Fantaisie-Impromptu_? Much too difficult. (God, if only his fingers would do as they’re told! His father had always played this one like a true virtuoso.)

 

A stack of American ragtimes? Bit too trivial to impress Mr Barrow with, Jimmy thinks, biting his bottom lip in frustration.

 

Finally, he settles on Debussy’s _Rêverie_. He’s never played it before, but it doesn’t look too difficult. Simpler, in any case, than that Ravel he’s made a shipwreck of earlier. _‘So? Another French piece, after all? The French are really persistent today, aren’t they?’_ Jimmy thinks with an inward snort, grabbing his little chewed-up pencil off the music stand.

 

He places one hand on the cool keys and tentatively plays the first few notes, the first hesitant accompaniment figure of the left hand, that is supposed to support the expressive, dreamy melody of the right beginning to unfold in the third bar. Then he stops, a few quavers into the second line, leaning forward, and busily starts scribbling numbers on the page, then repeats what he’s just played, adding the right-hand theme, pencil stuck between his teeth, and stops again to fill in a few more numbers.

 

“Why have you stopped?” Barrow’s soft voice asks behind him. “That sounded lovely.”

 

Jimmy half turns towards him on the squeaky piano stool. “I haven’t stopped. I’m not playing yet,” he smiles.

 

“Oh?”

 

“I haven’t played this one before. I need to work out the fingering first.”

 

From the corner of his eye, Jimmy can see that Barrow’s hand has frozen on its way to his mouth, handsome face caught in an expression of questioning surprise, fingertips and cigarette barely touching his lips, both eyebrows raised in bemused enquiry. “The what?”

 

“The fingering,” Jimmy laughs, tapping the sheet music on the piano stand with the index finger of his outstretched left, as if Barrow could see the little numbers from where he’s sitting at the table. “It’s usually all off. I don’t know who these editors have in mind when they publish their scores … Young, blushing maidens perhaps? Swooning over one romantic piece of music or other? In any case, the recommended fingering never works for me. It’s as if it’s all written for someone with considerably smaller hands than mine.”

 

He swivels back to face the piano and gives the tip of his pencil a quick, perfunctory lick, swiftly crossing out the number **_3_** he has just spotted on the page and replacing it with a small **_1_**. (No need for his middle finger to pass over his thumb here when he can reach that key with his thumb with ease.)

 

Then he glances over his shoulder at the other man again. “‘Cause you see, I’ve got rather large hands,” Jimmy explains, holding up his right for Barrow to see.

 

“Yes, I’ve noticed,” the underbutler replies quietly, cutting his eyes away from Jimmy’s hands a bit too quickly, then exhales a long plume of smoke with faux nonchalance.

 

“And that means the indicated fingering’s mostly wrong for me,” Jimmy adds and continues to mark down the changes on the sheet music.

 

It’s true: Jimmy has always prided himself in comfortably being able to span an eleventh and even managing to awkwardly stretch to a twelfth. Thundering octaves up and down the keyboard are child’s play to him. Something that publishers like … (Jimmy raises his gaze to take a quick peek at the top of the page) … like _Monsieur E. Fromont, Paris_ , don’t seem to have in mind when thinking of a typical pianist. God knows who they think this music is meant for. People with significantly smaller hands than his, in any case. People like … like Barrow, Jimmy suddenly realises as he turns his head slightly and his gaze falls upon the man’s elegant pale hands. They’re quite remarkable, these hands, he notices out of the corner of his eye, slender, almost aristocratic-looking and with a narrow span. One of them is partially covered by the man’s customary glove, its leather soft and worn at the finely stitched seams. And yet those fingers are so white, so long, so delicate that … Jimmy quickly whips his head around again to stare at the score on the piano stand. _‘Right … where was I?’_

 

“And here I always wondered how pianists know which key to press at what time,” Barrow’s amused voice addresses him from behind. “Turns out it’s just like maths: a logical sequence of numbers … You just have to follow the instructions.”

 

“It’s not as easy as that,” Jimmy laughs, feeling his cheeks begin to warm, even in the cool air downstairs. He feels happy, he realises dimly. Giddily happy for some reason that he doesn’t quite understand.

 

“Isn’t it?” Barrow’s voice rings out behind him, followed by a long drag on the cigarette. “Well, I don’t know a lot about music, to be honest.”

 

Jimmy has suspected this, of course. Barrow seems more a man of letters than of song, constantly hidden behind his newspapers and books as he is.

 

Jimmy, for his part, has never really understood this peculiar obsession some people seem to have with the printed word, this love affair with books and papers. He’s got nothing against a good read every once in a while, nothing against devouring a gripping (and slightly sensationalist) novel or flipping through a magazine that the girls have left lying about in the servants’ hall, but his thoughts, his emotions, his dreams at night, don’t consist of fully formed sentences, not even of disconnected words; they’re aren’t language at all – at least not this kind of language … It’s a language made of chords and harmonies and scales. A language not any less true and real, but almost untranslatable into actual words, into precise terms and expressions. It’s as if his brain is just wired differently, as if he is less aware of himself and others sometimes, as if it’s all more vague, less defined. But the fact that he sometimes doesn’t know _what_ it is that he feels and doesn’t know how to describe it doesn’t mean that he feels it any less keenly, doesn’t mean that this inner music surging through him is any less powerful and overwhelming.

 

Whenever he hears someone’s tread on the floor of the attic corridors upstairs, the footfalls turn into a complex rhythmic pattern in his head, a rhythmic pattern in a specific time signature and tempo, being tapped out against the wooden floorboards. And when he hears someone speak or shout or scream or cry or laugh or even just sigh, he registers the pitch of their voice and whether it goes up or down.

 

And whenever he thinks of Eddie, his child, his sweet little innocent son, he is engulfed in the warmest, sweetest A-flat major harmony the universe has ever created for man to marvel at, in a soulful tune, that quickly turns so soft, so pure, so painfully beautiful, that it starts to squeeze his heart into an aching knot, before turning into a sorrowful and dark F minor theme, filling his soul with its rich, broad and full sound.

 

And thinking of Barrow is like listening to a melody that, in a mesmerising moment of god-like clarity, emanates from the strings of some unknown, yet divine instrument, filling the glorious spheres with its breathtaking splendour and Jimmy with rage and awe and wonder and fear …

 

Thinking in musical terms is such a profound experience, such an integral part of Jimmy’s being, that he doesn’t really understand how anyone can live without it, live not knowing anything about music.

 

Yes, music (and maybe the cinema every now and then), that’s all the nourishment his soul needs.

 

This deep need to pore over the financial section of the newspaper that Barrow displays so often, on the other hand, this enthusiasm for whatever some journalist has written somewhere about the goings-on in the world, for all of those endless, pointless arguments about Egypt becoming independent or about women's suffrage or about this whole Irish debacle, all of this eludes Jimmy completely.

 

“It’s not maths,” he breaks his silence eventually. “You see, I _could_ probably play it without paying attention to the fingering. But that’d be more difficult.”

 

“Why?” Barrow has folded up his newspaper and looks genuinely interested now.

 

“Well, you could say that playing the piano is like walking, in a way,” Jimmy tries to explain it, scrunching up his face in concentration. “Only that instead of putting one foot in front of the other, you’ve got _ten_ of them to sort out and have to make sure that each one does exactly what it is supposed to do. At breakneck speed probably. And on an uneven path of black and white keys at that. A path through a composition that you might not know yet. A path that’s badly lit, so to speak.”

 

“Sounds like an adventure.” One side of Barrow’s mouth curls up in a lopsided smile at that, new, unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.

 

“It _is_ , in a way, yes,” Jimmy laughs again. “So … if there is a fingerpost pointing you in the right direction, you better take it seriously.”

 

“Only that sometimes the right direction isn’t, in fact, right for _you_ ,” Barrow nods, clearly having understood the metaphor. “And when it’s not, you’ve got to come up with your _own_ directions.”

 

“Something like that, yes,” Jimmy beams at him, his earlier anger completely forgotten by now. “And those directions are a very personal thing. The path laid out by one pianist can be quite hazardous for another to follow. That Ravel thing I was playing earlier … it still has my father’s fingering written in on most pages. But that version doesn’t work for me either.”

 

“‘Cause you’ve got to find out what’s right for _you_. I see …” Barrow says slowly, an odd, pensive gleam in his eyes. “You’ve got to find your own way through the dark … to feel it out with your fingertips … ‘Cause nobody has walked it before. Yes, I … _understand_.” The man looks away at that, eyes fixed on something invisible in the distance, as if suddenly caught up in some memory, his newly lit cigarette smouldering away between his pale fingers.

 

“I’ll try again if you want. Properly, this time,” Jimmy suggests, tearing the man out of his strange reverie.

 

“Wh– Oh, play that piece, you mean? Yes, please. I liked that one,” Barrow snaps out of his thoughts.

 

“It’s French, though,” Jimmy admits with an apologetic smirk.

 

“Well, nobody’s perfect,” Barrow shrugs. It’s meant in jest. That much is obvious from the man’s narrowed, twinkling eyes and wry smile. It’s a playful little quip.

 

And yet, there’s something … something in the way he says it. Some hidden pain in the corners of Barrow’s eyes as the man smiles to himself for a moment, a look of forlorn contemplation on his face. There’s something about his mouth that's just a bit too tense for a joke and a hint of a suppressed something in his voice that just seems off. It’s as if there’s a rich series of subtle, yet heartbreakingly beautiful overtones to this remark, swinging in the air like a delicate cobweb of sound.

 

And suddenly, Jimmy wonders if maybe Barrow’s statement about nobody being perfect isn’t referring to something else entirely. To something that hasn’t got anything to do with French music: To Jimmy’s not being _that_ way. Or maybe to Barrow’s heart being so imperfect and foolish to insist on loving someone who cannot return the sentiment … To how fate constantly insists on throwing together pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that don’t fit together, on rearranging every intricately written, harmonious composition until it sounds dissonant and jarring…

 

At that, Jimmy gives himself a quick little shake and turns back to the piano to play the Debussy even though he knows he’s no good at sight-reading. (He’s never been good at it.) There’s something about playing _a prima vista_ that just doesn’t come naturally to him. He’s too impatient for it, not calm, not confident, enough. It’s not how he works. He feels overwhelmed by new information too quickly, which makes it hard to process two staves at the same time – when seeing them for the first time, that is. And translating a plethora of notes into music at a glance is no mean feat. Jimmy is much better at playing things he’s worked out, in a sense, things he’s understood and rehearsed and practised over and over again. Pieces that he’s really worked through. Having to capture and process data in an instant is very difficult and extremely frustrating to him.

 

But he’s going to try. For Barrow.

 

And Debussy hasn’t made the task _too_ hard for him to tackle. It’s a mellow little piece of music, with an accompaniment that falls comfortably under his more dexterous left hand and a simple undulating melody that doesn’t overstrain his weaker right, flowing along peacefully, supported by some intricate pedal work, and turning into a quiet, warm daydream of a faraway summer …

 

Every note of it is so enchanting, so endlessly soothing, so iridescently golden, that the music just envelops Jimmy in its warmth like the poetic promise of something wonderful and unknown that he can’t quite name but knows is there every time his fingertips connect with the ivory keys and conjure up this surreal longing for a brighter, more blessed tomorrow.

 

Across the corridor, the soft clack-clacking of Carson’s typewriter can be heard, indicating that the butler is still working despite the late hour. (The fact that the man hasn’t so much as raised an eyebrow at Barrow earlier or breathed a word against him, upon hearing about the underbutler’s antics at dinner, is a testament to how much he disapproves of strangers speaking out against the family.)

 

And behind himself, Jimmy can hear the gentle rustle of the evening paper as Barrow turns a page. There’s a strange domesticity to it all. As if this were how it was always supposed to be: a quiet, peaceful evening downstairs, that finds him seated at the piano, playing for Barrow (of all people). It reminds Jimmy of his parents for some reason, of the way his father would warm his hands by the fire and then stroll over to the old piano to play a dazzling little something for Jimmy’s mother, for her, always for her … of the way his mother would bow her head over her needlework, a little smile softening the look of intense concentration on her otherwise strict face as she sorted through the different pieces of lace and velvet ribbon in front of her, picking up a needle here or some whalebone there, all the while listening to her husband’s fingers hammering out the precise rhythm of a jolly Mazurka or some cheerful polka, listening to how he gently caressed the keys with a delicate Nocturne or a sentimental waltz … by the warm light of the fireplace … a lifetime ago …

 

Jimmy is just letting the notes roll off smoothly into the piece’s exquisite _pianissimo_ ending when Wright walks in, a cup of tea in his hand and a nervous smile on his face.

 

“Oh … er … hullo …” the valet stutters.

 

 _‘Lord give me strength,’_ Jimmy thinks sourly, taking his right foot off the brass pedal with a loud clonk.

 

“I hope I’m not interrupting a private concert for Mr Barrow?” Wright enquires, cautious smile audible in his voice.

 

Jimmy whirls around on his piano stool. “I was quite finished. Don’t worry … sir,” he says coldly.

 

“Nice piece,” the other man replies before Barrow can get a word in. “Debussy, was it? Lady Dullop would have liked that.”

 

“Probably, yes,” Jimmy says, trying very hard to keep his voice devoid of any emotion.

 

“How about we play a little duet for Mr Barrow?” Wright suggests, wiggling the fingers of his free hand in the air.

 

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ve got any sheet music for that,” Jimmy lies smoothly, his flat voice betraying nothing.

 

(As if he would let this brat touch the copy of Schubert’s _Fantasia in F minor for four hands_ he’s got stashed upstairs in his room. The beautifully bound book of sheet music with its richly ornamented art-nouveau Breitkopf  & Härtel cover lies hidden under his bed, preserving the memory of a better time, of long hours on warm winter evenings by the fire, of how he and his father used to play it back at home, of home, of a home he has lost – alongside his piano playing skills – of a home he will never have again, a home he will never be able to give his son.

 

His father’s sheet music is Jimmy’s most treasured, most carefully guarded possession. A precious treasure he has managed to hang on to even in the worst of times, even when he had had to sell the wedding rings Eddie’s mother and he had exchanged so hastily years ago after the boy’s conception. He’s held on to his father’s collection of scores, while selling all other family possessions to make ends meet. This collection is his treasure. Once, he even yelled at Alfred for touching his edition of the Schubert _Fantasia_ with his greasy fingers while rummaging about. He’s certainly not going to share it with some stranger who’s just stumbled into his life to annoy him.)

 

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Wright replies with a genuine smile. “I’ll have to bring something along the next time we come to visit.”

 

 _‘The next time?’_ Jimmy thinks with inward indignation.

 

“So, what do you prefer,” Wright continues, “playing top or bottom?”

 

From the corner of his eye, Jimmy can suddenly see Barrow freeze, shock springing up in the whites of the man’s widening eyes; then the underbutler’s usually oh-so-pale face turns bright red for some odd reason that Jimmy can’t quite fathom, and the man looks away as if silently chastising himself.

 

“I mean, do you like playing the _primo_ or the _secondo_ part better?” Wright corrects himself quickly with a nervous laugh, tearing his eyes away from Barrow, who is drawing on his cigarette so hard that his cheekbones stand out sharply all of a sudden, threatening to break through his skin for a moment.

 

Both Wright and Barrow are, for some reason, studiously avoiding looking at each other.

 

Finally, Jimmy gives an inward shrug, unable to work out what it is that has the two men so tongue-tied all of a sudden. “I don’t care. I don’t really like playing duets,” he declares, feigning disinterest. (Lying comes easier and easier to him these days. In reality, he _loves_ playing piano four hands. But he’d rather cut off his hands than play with this limp-wristed Mr Iron Hoof over there.)

 

To Jimmy’s dismay, Wright is actually standing in the exact spot where Jimmy usually stands in the evenings, chatting with Barrow. The man is even drinking tea the way _he_ usually does at this hour. The only difference is that their guests’ valet keeps throwing Barrow nervous glances over his teacup. And, of course, Jimmy would never do _that_!

 

Jimmy clucks his tongue in indignation and turns halfway back to the piano in order to hide his annoyed face.

 

“Lovely evening, what?” he hears Wright stutter; the man is obviously trying to strike up a conversation with Barrow now.

 

 _‘Bollocks!’_ Jimmy thinks glumly, staring at the way the ivory is yellowing with age and peeling off some of the piano keys. _‘It’s colder in here than inside an iceman’s lorry. You can practically feel the damp air creep in from under the doors. There’s nothing particularly ‘lovely’ about this evening. I’m freezing in about a dozen layers of clothing.’_

 

Yes, he realises, somehow he’d managed to forget about the cold over the past half hour or so, while playing for Barrow. Now it’s back with a vengeance, flooding across the floor in a cool wave of air and crawling up his trouser legs like the tide coming in. It’s almost as if just by walking into the servants’ hall, Wright has lowered the average temperature of the room by several degrees Fahrenheit. And it’s only now, as he presses a few keys at random, that Jimmy notices how horribly out of tune the instrument is. Strange! Earlier, caught up in his memories and his conversation with Barrow, he had had quite a different impression of it: it had sounded like the grandest of all concert grands, notes sparkling brilliantly with each scale he played, every chord shining with otherworldly beauty. Even the piano stool hadn’t seemed so uncomfortable just moments ago. The thing is old and won’t turn properly anymore, forever stuck between two positions – 180 degrees back and forth – and Jimmy cannot adjust its height anymore, which means that he, who has never been the tallest of men, is sitting on a piano stool that’s much too low for him, making the thigh muscles of his right leg cramp up from the uncomfortable angle at which he had to press the sustain pedal earlier. Now, why hadn’t he noticed that earlier? _‘Maybe because I was distracted,’_ Jimmy muses. Distracted by the music. Yes. Caught up in a world of his own. _Their_ own, actually. Barrow’s and his. And now it suddenly feels as if he has, after a long journey among the stars, found himself abruptly and none-too-gently brought back to reality, back to planet Earth, back to the dust in the corners of the servants’ hall, to the all-encompassing cold, to the uncomfortable piano stool, to the dankness and humidity in the downstairs rooms that warp the wooden instrument and put it out of tune, to the ivory chipping away from the keyboard … It’s as if only now he has noticed that the memories of home, the sepia-toned thoughts of a bygone yesterday and the heart-warmingly familiar images of his parents’ faces weren’t real at all, their features already fading away from his memory again, slipping away between his shaking fingers, away into nothingness, away into the dark beyond, leaving behind only the image of the cruelly matter-of-fact words, _‘It is my painful duty to inform you …’_ printed on a telegram template, the name _‘Edward Kent’_ filled in hastily by some official’s careless hand, and the image of his dead mother’s horribly discoloured, purple-bluish face after the flu had taken her.

 

“So, er, peaceful and quiet,” Jimmy hears Wright add with an unsure smile. “Don't you think so, Mr Barrow?”

 

It’s all Jimmy can do not to slam his head into the keyboard in front of him. _‘Just kill me now,’_ he thinks.

 

“It was, yes,” Barrow replies neutrally.

 

“So, I’ve heard congratulations are in order?” Wright asks the underbutler when no further answer is forthcoming, bashful smile still audible in his voice. “You’re going to be a homeowner soon, Mr Barrow. You must be thrilled.”

 

Jimmy swivels around in his seat again, shooting daggers at the valet with his eyes. Doesn’t the man know how dangerous all of this is? Has he forgotten about the public uproar following the discovery of the scandalous nature of Casement’s diaries? Jimmy doesn’t want Barrow doing anything stupid, doesn’t want him to be found out and subsequently arrested. Doesn’t Wright understand that?

 

Barrow, for his part, just sucks on his cigarette nonchalantly. “Well, whatever ruffles Mr Carson’s feathers has me thrilled, yes.”

 

“He’s not too happy with an underbutler moving up in life, is he?” Wright laughs nervously.

 

“He isn’t happy with _anyone_ moving up in life,” Barrow points out matter-of-factly and exhales a long stream of smoke. “Moving forward is a transgression against the natural order of things, in his opinion.”

 

At that, the visiting valet’s brown eyes seem to smile from behind his spectacles for a moment. “Ah, I see. And change is, in itself, dangerous and disruptive? The natural order of things being ‘the best of all possible worlds’ and such?”

 

Barrow nods. “Yes. And in this Panglossian view, the universe is in a perpetual state of mathematical harmony. But I’m no Candide, Mr Wright, as you will have probably guessed.”

 

“Then you must agree that this _Monadology according to Charles Carson_ is illogical in itself,” Wright points out, carefully setting his teacup back on the saucer in his hand after a quick sip. There is an interested gleam in his eyes now. “For, in mathematical harmony, ‘nothing arises out of nothing’. Ergo, change wouldn’t exist if it weren't for a sufficient reason. Which, in turn, would mean that _moving on_ is better than _not_ moving on, for the simple reason that change does exist and, hence, does contain more reality than something that doesn’t exist.”

 

Jimmy isn’t entirely sure he knows what these two men are talking about, isn’t sure why Barrow nods his head affirmatively at that. The only thing he _is_ sure about is that he’s just heard two words he doesn’t like very much.

 

“Mr Barrow isn’t _moving on_!” he snaps angrily from where he’s sulking in his corner. “He’s just moving _out_. Nothing will change. He’s still going to be around. He’ll stay here. _Everything_ will stay the way it is now.”

 

Wright looks around, a bit startled, as if he isn’t sure what’s warranted such an attack, as if he has only just remembered that Jimmy is in the room. “Well … that’s … erm … intriguing, really,” the man replies, not unfriendly. “But that _is_ essentially a big change, isn’t it? Working in service, yet living in a grand old house of one's own … that’s a bit of a new thing, uncharted territory, so to speak. Never done before and all that.”

 

 _‘Oh, go boil your head!’_ Jimmy thinks. Why does this man have to be so insufferable? Why is he such a know-all? Jimmy vaguely realises that what he is experiencing is intellectual jealousy but quickly pushes that feeling away. Surely, it isn't just that. The man _is_ full of himself, right? Right? And pretentious. Yes, that must be it!

 

Meanwhile, Barrow has cleared his throat. “Well, it is all in keeping with the late Mr Crawley’s plans for the estate. They’re trying to buy up potentially profitable land, that can be put to agricultural use, yet getting rid of all the property that doesn’t yield any income.”

 

“And that’s where you came in and persuaded them to sell a house that has been nothing but a liability over the last few decades?” Wright asks.

 

Barrow smiles a small smile. “Something like that, yes. It’s just that Mr Carson isn’t very much in favour of looking at the estate from a profit-and-loss perspective. In his view, tradition is grander and worth more than ‘filthy lucre’; it’s most certainly grander than reality, in any case. But we’ve already established that metaphysics isn’t exactly his strong suit … And a servant buying a house is just an unheard-of blasphemy to him. Man doesn’t like to have things run a bit differently.”

 

“There’s nothing wrong with running things a bit differently from time to time,” Wright agrees vaguely, quickly looking down into his teacup, voice a bit strained.

 

Jimmy feels his eyes widen incredulously.

 

 _‘So, this is where this is going,’_ he thinks, staring at the bashful stranger. He knows exactly what the man has just said there, and if Barrow isn’t blind, he knows it as well.

 

At that moment, Wright seems to give Jimmy a quick, nervous look over the rim of his round glasses.

 

 _‘He wants me to leave. Desperately!’_ Jimmy realises, digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands. (It doesn’t hurt. Not enough, in any case. Not the way he wants it to. Like every good pianist, he keeps his nails very short, too short to hurt himself with at a moment like this. It’s ironic because the only thing that actually hurts aren’t his palms; they’re his finger pads, where he has, once again, cut his nails down too short, leaving reddish, raw patches of skin, that sting every time his fingers come into contact with soap or are pressed down too hard. It’s a common pianists’ ailment. Jimmy knows that. And yet he still hasn’t managed to stop himself from cutting them down so far. Because this pain holds the memory of a time when he was a better pianist, of a time when he was a son and not just a father. This slight stinging ache is dear to him, familiar and comforting like an old friend.)

 

Wright gives him another covert look out of the corner of his eyes, and, despite the cold, Jimmy suddenly feels a few beads of sweat form on the back of his neck as he digs his fingertips into the flesh of his palms, clenching his fists. The valet’s furtive little looks, his charming smiles, his honest laughs and genuine friendliness, everything about the man calls for capital punishment, in Jimmy’s opinion. Why can’t the man just be a bastard? It would be so much easier to hate him, and Jimmy wouldn’t have to feel guilty for behaving so dastardly around the man, for disliking him so much. This way Jimmy has got to hate the man for being so likeable and clever and well-educated and kind to everyone, to hate the fact that everyone below stairs seems to be falling over themselves to praise him, to hate those stupid, I’m-oh-so-intellectual glasses and the dreamy-eyed glances the man keeps throwing in Barrow’s direction from behind their polished circular lenses. And all of that makes it much more difficult to justify one’s thoughts and feelings to one’s own conscience.

 

And then, there’s this tiny voice in the back of Jimmy’s mind telling him that it’s all none of his business, anyway. It’s a sneaky little voice fighting an endless fight with the beast that is roaring in his chest, growling that he’s got to protect Barrow, he’s got to make sure the man doesn’t do anything stupid or get into trouble.

 

It’s the next time he looks into Wright’s eyes that the roaring beast in his chest surrenders, making way for something softer, kinder, gentler, for a feeling so infinitely more tender that it almost pains him to feel it flood his chest. It’s because of what he suddenly discovers in those sad round eyes: this expression of deliberate emptiness, this profound longing, this loneliness so akin to the air of isolation that Barrow, so often, seems to wear like a cross on his back. And suddenly, all the resentment and anger Jimmy’s harboured for Wright starts to evaporate bit by bit, leaving nothing but pity and embarrassment behind – embarrassment at how humiliating it must be to crave something so repulsive and undeniably wrong, how humiliating to this genuinely nice man to know he will never be able to find an equally kind and caring wife for himself. What a horrible fate to know that what one wants is criminal and yet to be unable to help oneself! To give oneself up to the habitual practice of debauchery almost against one’s will. And to remain wifeless and unloved. It is a sad, a depressing thought, that makes Jimmy’s heart go out to the stranger, who is just as lonely, just as miserable, just as unhappy as Barrow and will probably remain so throughout his entire life.

 

And isn’t it strange how these men are so completely different from what Jimmy would have thought they would look like? Barrow doesn’t seem to bear the slightest resemblance to one of _those_ chaps. And even Wright is far manlier, taller and more sinewy than most men Jimmy knows. The man certainly looks like he would win in a fight. Even though there _is_ this little something in his vowels that’s just that bit too charming, that slight sweetness in his voice that’s a bit more melodious than usual.

 

It’s actually quite worrying, Jimmy realises, that he doesn’t find that off-putting at all. Quite the opposite, actually. The way in which the stranger moves his nice, muscular forearms whenever he makes a gesture is quite fascinating. It’s not at all what Jimmy would have expected it to be. Not disgusting or ridiculous. No. These ever-so-slightly effeminate gestures actually contrast nicely with the man’s long masculine arms and strong bone structure. And for some reason, the fact that he finds it so nice, so not repulsive at all, so attractive even, worries Jimmy, making his throat work uncontrollably and something below his sternum buzz like a thousand insects crawling under his skin and into an open, yet still invisible wound.

 

 _‘Well, a woman would probably find him attractive, that’s all,’_ Jimmy tells himself. _‘I’ve got eyes. Of course, I’ve noticed it. Shame he’ll never like a woman in that way. Shame he lusts after Mr Barrow instead …’_

 

Which once again leads him to the question of how this stranger has even realised Barrow is … _that way_. It’s not exactly obvious. Have these chaps got secret signs or something? Have they got a secret handshake? Or do they tap their feet in a certain manner once they spot someone they suspect of being one of ‘their sort’?

 

 _‘Perhaps I should just leave,’_ Jimmy thinks, trying to suppress the awful feeling that’s roaring inside of him like a restless fire at that thought, this inner horror screaming loudly inside of his head at the idea of what these two men might do … Perhaps he should leave them to themselves. It’s none of his business, after all. And it’s not like Barrow is some child that needs looking after. And, of course, Wright knows of the dangers that lie in pursuing another man, is aware of the constant danger of discovery. There’s a reason the man’s so nervous, after all.

 

Jimmy is about to get up from his piano stool and leave them to it when Wright suddenly clears his throat again. “Must be nice to finally _own_ the roof one lives under and the bedroom one sleeps in. To come home to a place where nobody can disturb you or burst into your room, unannounced. A place that’s all yours.”

 

 _‘Yes, yes, I get it. I’m off, and you can chat about ‘bedrooms’ all you want,’_ Jimmy thinks, forcing himself not give in to the screaming inside his head and biting his lips until he tastes blood. He's pressing his fingers into his palms so hard that by now his entire body is shaking. And he is about to get up when suddenly Barrow says something that stops him in his tracks.

 

“Yes, quite … It’s an old vicarage, you know. And I do love even the mere idea of living in that house because you can practically feel the presence of God in there.”

 

At that, Jimmy freezes in his seat, feeling his eyebrows shoot up in consternation. _‘What?!’_

 

From the way Wright’s brown eyes widen fractionally behind his spectacles, it’s obvious he’s thinking the same thing.

 

Meanwhile, Barrow manages to top it all by saying, “You see, Mr Wright, I’m a very spiritual man, me.”

 

 _‘What a pile of rubbish,’_ Jimmy thinks, narrowing his eyes at the underbutler. _‘Since when are you ‘spiritual’?’_

 

And then Barrow actually adds, “To know that, this way, I’ll be closer to the Lord makes me ever so grateful.”

 

 _‘And here I thought that was the only man you never wanted to get close to,’_ Jimmy snorts inwardly, realising more and more that Barrow is lying through his teeth.

 

Men of their age don’t talk like that. Granted, there are quite a few upper-class ladies who love to constantly stress their connection with the powers above, especially the sighing, swooning and fainting kind. But Jimmy has yet to see a man going to church of his own volition (instead of being dragged into it by his wife because of ‘what the neighbours might think’) or a boy willingly attending a service and not just because his mother has laid out his Sunday best for him, standing over him with a rolling pin in her hand as he dresses. It’s just not something you hear men talk about all that much unless the bloke in question is a religious loony or American.

 

The latter being rather unlikely, what with Barrow’s accent, Wright has apparently settled for the former. For a moment, it even seems as if the valet were considering some third option (namely that Barrow is giving him the brush-off for some odd reason), and his bespectacled eyes dart suspiciously back and forth between Jimmy and Barrow again – though what the man is thinking exactly Jimmy can’t quite work out.

 

“W-well, that’s, erm, good … Good for you, Mr Barrow,” Wright stammers finally. “That you’re such a spiritual man, I mean.”

 

 _‘Spiritual, my arse!’_ Jimmy thinks, still watching the two men from his corner. _‘Is that what they’re calling it these days?’_

 

Barrow has shot the man down; that's as plain as a pikestaff. And he has done so rather cruelly, all things considered. He has deliberately led the poor lad to believe that he belongs to the sort of crowd that would come after his sort with a Bible in hand and a fire-and-brimstone-sermon on their lips.

  
“Ooh,” Wright suddenly exclaims faux-surprised, “look at the time!” He then proceeds to take a long, exaggerated look at his wrist. (Ever since the war, people have begun to wear their watches around the wrist of all places. Personally, Jimmy thinks these wristlets look a bit girlish and silly. But then, Wright is essentially one of this ever-so-fashionable crowd; so it seems quite fitting.) “It’s getting really late,” the poor valet splutters. “I must be going … Should probably … er … turn in for the night … We've really got to talking and lost track of time. Er, goodnight …” And then he practically flees the room.

 

Jimmy waits a few breathless moments until the sound of the man’s footsteps has died down in the hall, then turns to Barrow. “Why did you have to crush his hopes like that?” he hisses. “There was no need to be quite so unkind,” he then suddenly adds in defence of the man whom he has spent so much time hating over the last few days, surprising himself most of all with this fervent statement.

 

Barrow doesn’t look at Jimmy, just continues to smoke and stare ahead unblinkingly.

 

Ah, right. They’re not talking about this topic.

 

“Did you _have_ to do that?” Jimmy repeats his question with that particular stubbornness characteristic of him.

 

“To do what?” Barrow replies rather coldly, extinguishing his cigarette with a too sharp movement of his hand.

 

“Oh, come on,” Jimmy huffs, feeling his face warm slightly at the thought of what he is about to say, but suddenly realising that he’s not going to back down. He _will_ address this. (Maybe it’s just Barrow’s defensive response, his resistance, that keeps spurring Jimmy on.) “You know what I’m talking about! He likes you. _Are you blind_?”

 

It happens very quickly, but Jimmy catches it, anyway: Barrow winces. He winces at that last word Jimmy has just said there.

 

“Don’t say that. I don’t like that phrase,” the man says quickly, without inflexion. Jimmy is about to ask, _‘What phrase?’_ in genuine bewilderment, when Barrow adds, “It’s no laughing matter.”

 

There is something tense around the man’s eyes all of a sudden, a tiny troubled wrinkle or line, a strangely strained and tight expression around his mouth, and it suddenly looks as if the man were in rather sharp pain for a split second. It’s just a quick fleeting expression, that flickers across his pale face and vanishes again, and yet Jimmy notices it, wondering why Barrow has just spat out these words with such intensity, as if he couldn’t bite them out quickly enough before instantly snapping his mouth shut again, his lips forming a straight white line.

 

“I just meant … why did you have to lie to him and pretend you were ‘spiritual’ when it’s not true?”

 

“How do you know it’s not true?”

 

“Er … I just … Isn’t it obvious, what with your propensiti– … I just assumed.”

 

“Well, don’t go around assuming things about people,” Barrow replies quietly, reaching for his cigarette pack again.

 

“But … _Are_ you?” Jimmy asks back incredulously, his mouth agape.

 

“Well, in the words of the great philosopher James Kent, _‘That’d be telling!’_ ” Barrow snarls a tad nastily and shakes a new cigarette out of the little cardboard box, cigarette card with a picture of Natacha Rambova on it flopping onto the table, unnoticed.

 

 _‘Oh, great! Looks like some ginger twit can’t keep his gigantic trap shut,’_ Jimmy thinks, watching as the underbutler lights the cigarette with a decisive flick of his hand.

 

Secretly, he is still wondering if Barrow has just turned Wright down because the poor chap has dared to proposition him right in front of Jimmy or if he’s done so because Jimmy asked him that certain question the other day in the courtyard. Or if maybe there is another reason for Barrow’s behaviour. (There is no way of knowing. It’s not like one can just talk about these kind of things.)

 

But Jimmy is just hot-headed and stubborn enough to try it one last time, no matter what. “You’ve scared him. That’s what I meant,” he points out. “Was that really necessary?”

 

“I’m sure he’ll survive it,” Barrow replies coolly, sucking on his new cigarette, the sharp outline of his cheek becoming more pronounced again. The man’s voice is all practised nonchalance, but from the way his left hand keeps clenching into a fist and relaxing again on the tabletop, it’s obvious he isn’t quite as unfazed as he is letting on. The leather of the glove is straining over his knuckles, and Jimmy is suddenly very aware of the fact that he’s never seen the man’s hand without it, has never seen him the way he truly is.

 

“You shouldn’t have been so unkind,” Jimmy insists.

 

“Well, what can I say,” Barrow sneers, “he was _horace-_ ing me.”

 

Jimmy sighs. It’s obvious how much Barrow dislikes their topic of conversation and tries to deflect. ( _‘It’s because of me,’_ something inside of Jimmy whispers. _‘He’s deflecting ‘cause he thinks that otherwise I’d bolt.’_ Clearly, there is only one way to show the man how sincere Jimmy is about this – or, at least, how sincere he’s _trying_ to be.)

 

“I just meant that …” Jimmy trails off, gulping, his throat suddenly too dry. “… that … that you shouldn’t care what _I_ think, or if I’m even in the room, or … or …” He takes a deep breath. “Just do whatever you feel like doing. It’s really none of my business if you’re … you’re …”

 

Barrow has closed his eyes in irritation, the expression on his face clearly reading, _‘Is he still going on about this?’_

 

“We’re not discussing this, James,” he says in a pressed voice.

 

Jimmy feels his throat work again. The other man shouldn’t have to keep silent about it all, he muses. Not in front of him, anyway. Not after Jimmy’s confided in him about his son. Not after the man’s been so kind to look after the boy. Not after he’s kept Jimmy’s secret without so much as batting an eyelid, not giving it away to anyone.

 

Yes, it _is_ illegal, and, yes, Jimmy still feels more than a little queasy thinking about it. But then, lots of things are illegal. And there are even a few _very legal_ things that are much worse than what Barrow does on his own time. Take His Lordship, for example. The man has almost bankrupted himself by being involved in some dodgy business at the stock exchange last year. It has probably cost many people their jobs, yet it is perfectly legal. Even though it has actually _harmed_ people, which cannot be said for whatever an underbutler and a valet can possibly get up to in the bedroom behind closed doors, Jimmy tries to convince himself. And yet, these victimless vices prompt far more revulsion, for some reason, than barbaric acts that actually _harm_ people. What's wrong with a society that glorifies death on the battlefields of the Great War as an honourable and almost romantic endeavour born out of an outdated idea of chivalry and glorious self-sacrifice, yet condemns this relatively minor sin? And what’s wrong with him that he feels the same way society does even though his rationality tells him to feel otherwise?

 

Maybe it is this thought that suddenly has him spluttering, “I don’t care, you know. I really don’t.”

 

It’s a lie, of course.

 

Thinking about _it_ has his stomach in knots in a split second, but it’s not like Barrow needs to know that. The man’s his friend. Yes, his _friend_ , he decides with a renewed vow to further strengthen this friendship, no matter what. For he doesn't want them to be just strangers who are civil around each other, anymore. They have become more, so much more to each other. And that means that Jimmy’s got to learn to ignore what’s bothering him about Barrow. To shrug off these mental images of graceful, pale fingers sliding into Wright’s floppy brown hair and along the man’s impressive chin and defined jawline, ghosting down his long neck and over his too gaudy bow tie. And even worse: the image of Wright’s broad hands tangling in the silk of Barrow’s raven hair, the sickening, heart-wrenching image of the man’s large nose pressed against Barrow’s skin, inhaling his scent with his eyes closed … The images are disturbing to the point where Jimmy starts trembling in his seat, wanting to claw his eyes out for ever having looked at the stranger, wanting to scratch his brain out with his fingernails for producing these images, that make him want to scream because they are both deeply unsettling and inexplicably intriguing …

 

“I really don’t care,” Jimmy whispers, as if to convince himself.

 

Barrow doesn’t react, staring off into the distance, not moving a muscle, forgotten cigarette smouldering away between his fingers.

 

Jimmy is just about to get up from the piano stool and go up to bed – it’s late, it’s cold, and the other man won’t even talk to him – when there is suddenly a quiet reply of sorts.

 

“There’s … there’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” Barrow says in a voice so low that it's barely discernible, all halting hesitation and awkward pauses.

 

“Whatever you like,” Jimmy offers, feeling both magnanimous and nervous about what to expect.

 

The other man turns towards him, setting his cigarette down onto the rim of the ashtray where it keeps glowing for a while, eventually going out entirely and turning into ashes the way they all will. “I wanted to ask you something. And … I’ll absolutely understand if you say no,” he adds quickly.

 

Jimmy uncrosses his arms, that he doesn’t even remember crossing but has apparently somehow held defensively in front of his body for quite a few minutes already. His curiosity is definitely piqued now.

 

“I was wondering,” Barrow starts too calmly somehow, unseeingly fiddling with one corner of the newspaper on the table, “if …” He takes a deep, quiet breath. “As you know, I’ll be moving house in a fortnight, and I was wondering if you wanted to rent two rooms in my– in the house where I’ll be living.”

 

Jimmy notices how the man avoids saying ‘in my house’, as if he were afraid that this would somehow scare Jimmy off. “What?” he asks back, perplexed.

 

“For Mrs Petersen and your son,” Barrow elaborates.

 

“For–?”

 

“Yes!” Barrow quickly continues before he can lose his nerve. “Look … Edward can’t stay in that boarding house. _He just can’t_!”

 

There’s a fierce intensity glowing in Barrow’s eyes now that Jimmy hasn’t quite expected. Even his accent is suddenly much more pronounced, flat vowels speaking of a childhood spent in the shadows of the numerous Victorian red-brick warehouses of Manchester, as if whatever he’s trying to say is bringing out the real Thomas Barrow for a moment, peeling away all the layers he has carefully cloaked himself in. “The neighbourhood is awful. The house is derelict. Mrs Petersen has to put a zinc tub under the leaky spot of the roof. It’s dank. It’s dirty. And it smells like a spike in there.”

 

“It doesn’t smell like a spike,” Jimmy mutters somewhat lamely, if only out of a stubborn sense of pride. If Jimmy is completely honest with himself, this description is spot on.

 

“It _does_ ,” Barrow insists. “It’s not a place a child should be growing up in. If he lived in the old vicarage, you could _walk_ over there in about fifteen minutes. And of course, you wouldn’t have to pay any ren–”

 

The man’s mouth suddenly snaps shut as if he has just realised what a cardinal mistake he has made.

 

And sure enough, Jimmy does immediately feel a strong urge to disagree in the strongest possible terms, hurt pride making him sit up straighter and bite out harshly, “I cannot possibly accept that from you, Mr Barrow.”

 

Barrow rubs his thumb across the newspaper in a subconscious motion, as if to brush aside a stray thought, smudging his finger pads with black printer’s ink, where Jimmy apparently hasn’t ironed it thoroughly enough earlier in the evening. “But just think about it: You wouldn’t have to throw money down that landlady’s throat anymore. You wouldn’t have to pay any rent at all. I mean, the vicarage is huge, you’ve said so yourself. I won’t even notice the two of them are there.”

 

“But–”

 

“And you could see your son much more often. Not just on your days off, but several times a week; it’s much closer by. And although you still wouldn't be living under the same roof, you’d be living almost around the corner. You could set your alarm clock a bit early and stop by before breakfast on some of the mornings or kiss him goodnight late in the evenings after the staff dinner. Or just slink off during your break and skip lunch. Anyway, we’d think of something …”

 

“Well, Mrs Petersen would probably be glad if I finally started paying her again, instead of spending what little money I’ve got on long bus rides and greedy landladies,” Jimmy admits, biting his bottom lip. (There are two thoughts warring in his mind now. What is worse: to hurt your pride by becoming beholden to a man who once committed the unspeakable sin of kissing you? Or to fail to be a man of your word by not paying the nursemaid you’ve hired for her hard and dedicated work?)

 

“Yes, Mrs Petersen would be delighted, actually,” Barrow nods. “When I was visiting recently she told me how she longs to live closer to her own children.”

 

“She’s got children?” Jimmy feels rather stupid all of a sudden. He has known the woman for years, and yet somehow he doesn't seem to know anything _about_ her, about her life. He can't even recall if he has ever tried to talk to her, _really_ talk to her. In any case, a man who’s literally only just met her seems to have got to know her much better in a much shorter time. Suddenly, Jimmy realises, guiltily, that he has never really tried all that hard, what with being all wrapped up in his own worries and problems.

 

“Yes. They’re all grown now, of course. They live in Ripon. Three sons, her pride and joy. Half-Danish, half-Flemish, and all tall as tree trunks, or so she’s told me,” Barrow smiles that small, barely-there smile of his. “And she’d love to live closer to them.”

 

Jimmy crosses his legs, then uncrosses them again, unsure what to say. It still doesn’t sit right with him.

 

“Think about it,” Barrow insists, “Edward wouldn’t have to be around those children in the city, anymore. They’re not a good influence. Surely, you know that. The children in the village are much more innocent.”

 

“I’ve never found anything to complain about,” Jimmy mumbles, but even he knows he’s lying now. He is aware of the tragic scenes playing out on a daily basis on the streets of South Bank, York.

 

“Oh, please,” Barrow snorts. “The last time I was there, there were boys eating out of a dustbin just around the corner.”

 

“Maybe they were just playing a game?” Jimmy suggests.

 

“A game called ‘How to survive the day’, yes! And don’t forget there’s a brothel on the second floor of the house your son is living in.”

 

“A b– No, no, no. Wait a moment. Just because _one_ girl decides to paint her face with rouge, doesn’t mean she’s a _demimondaine_.”

 

“A man in a faux leopard fur was just leaving the last time I was there.”

 

“So?”

 

“That was her _souteneur_ , trust me. The man was sporting a fake diamond ring, the stone the size of a quail egg, and the girl had a black eye the exact shape of that ring.”

 

“What?!”

 

“Oh, and he invited me to go ‘have a lie-in’ – I believe those were his words – while she was still crying her eyes out. When I declined the offer, he yelled at her to ‘get back to work’, or he would ‘put her out on the streets as a streetwalker’.”

 

“God, that’s just–” Jimmy feels his throat work painfully for a moment. “This girl is … what? Sixteen, seventeen maybe. She’s still a child!” In the back of his mind, a dark voice is cackling madly at him, _‘That didn’t exactly stop you with Eddie’s mother, now did it?’_ But he quickly manages to shut his guilty conscience out.

 

“There are children starving all over the city, James,” Barrow says. “Think of all of those pushcart pedlars flooding into the city and clogging Micklegate Bar. Or of all those beggars sitting along the river banks. All the costermongers and hawkers crowding the streets or going from door to door, selling haberdashery and sharpening knives.”

 

“Because they’re orphans,” Jimmy whispers. “Their fathers died in the war, and their mothers died of the flu. And now there’s nowhere for them to go.”

 

“Edward’s father didn’t die in the war,” Barrow says quietly. “He’s sitting right here.”

 

Jimmy suddenly realises how far apart they are sitting, conversing with each other all across the room, which seems strangely distant, considering the personal nature of their topic of conversation. “Somebody ought to help all these children.”

 

Barrow shrugs. And there suddenly, he is again, the master plotter of Downton, casually leaning back in his chair and narrowing his eyes. There is a fiercely cold expression on his face all of a sudden, his eyes icy, his gaze hard and his features set. It’s a cold that stems not from inherent malice or cruelty but from the bitter experience of life itself. “You cannot help everyone,” he replies coolly. “You’ve got to look out for your own.”

 

For a brief moment, Jimmy wonders if by ‘your own’ Barrow means more than just himself, if, through some strange twist of fate, the man has come to include _him_ and Eddie in this equation. It’s a strange thought, one that Jimmy doesn’t know what to feel about. It’s certainly a very unfamiliar experience. But Barrow leaves him no time to ponder this thought.

 

“Your son shouldn’t have to live this way. Here, he could attend the village primary school once he’s older.”

 

“Is that even a proper school?” Jimmy laughs doubtfully. “I thought that was just thirty or so pupils of all ages, all sitting in the same room. They don’t even separate boys and girls because there’s just so little of them. Seems a bit … I don’t know … improper, I suppose?”

 

“Could be an interesting experience,” Barrow points out with a shrug. “And anyway, Her Ladyship is the patron of the school. Do you really think anything improper will be going on there? I’ve heard their schoolmaster is elderly and has a hard time hearing when the children are insolent. So, he mainly just leaves them alone. He’s too good-natured and soft to use his cane on them the way he's supposed to.”

 

Jimmy gives a small smile. “Sounds like heaven to me.”

 

Yes, he could have certainly lived without the wooden ruler being applied to the palms of his hands or the cane to the seat of his trousers. (Throughout his entire childhood, Jimmy had been terrified of ending up with crippled fingers, that would make it impossible for him to ever play the piano again. Which was somehow far worse than enduring the much more painful strokes to his bottom, that left his skin raw and covered with angry red welts for days.) The worst part of it was that you had to go fetch that cane yourself, then hand it to the master and say, ‘Thank you for punishing me, sir,’ afterwards. Then you had to go and soak it in water to make sure it remained flexible and inflicted just as much pain on the next pupil as it had on you. It was the humiliation that made it so hard to endure.

 

He rocks back and forth on his piano stool for a moment, finding himself being transported back to his childhood; he half expects someone to shout, ‘Four legs on the floor, Kent!’ and a stinging slap to the back of his head.

 

But then Barrow clears his throat and says, “A young chap like Edward deserves to grow up in the countryside, where there’s fresh air and nature and sunshine and something new to learn every day.”

 

“You make it sound as if nature in itself were something good,” Jimmy laughs hoarsely.

 

“Oh, but it _is_. Sorry for turning all Rousseau on you. But if you want, we can wake up Mr Wright. I’m sure he’ll be able to give you an entire lecture on _Émile_. And much better than I ever could.”

 

“Er … oh, no, no, no … let the poor fellow sleep off his shock,” Jimmy amends quickly even though he isn’t entirely sure what Barrow is on about.

 

“Anyway,” the underbutler continues, “I would’ve loved a childhood like that: romping about in the park and having such a great house as one’s personal playground. That's heaven for a child. The villagers are friendly, and there are plenty of interesting animals on the farms. Your son shouldn’t have to live in that dark, dank room, surrounded by dirt and traffic and drunks and whores, inhaling smoke and fumes and dust all day long … And the old vicarage is a fine house, James, clean, bright and spacious. And right behind the house is a large garden, that belongs to it – that ancient orchard, I mean. It’s a bit overgrown, I have to admit. But that’s nothing I couldn’t whip into shape within a few weeks …”

 

The man finally falters, noticing Jimmy’s surprised expression.

 

Jimmy has probably never heard the underbutler say quite so much at once. Not in his entire time at Downton. It’s so uncharacteristic of Barrow that Jimmy briefly wonders how long the man has been thinking about this already, how long he has had to suppress it all and hide the fact that he was coming to a decision that would affect Jimmy so directly and profoundly. There is certainly a lot of determination and firm resolve in Barrow’s voice right now. As if he’s really had some time to mull it all over.

 

For a few moments, Jimmy doesn’t know what to reply. In the ensuing silence, he can hear the rain hitting the wet gravel outside and the wind pressing against the window panes above his head. There is one spot where the old putty keeps flaking off the wooden window frame. If that window isn’t sealed sometime soon, the wall under the sill will get damp, and they’ll have mould in the servants’ hall, Jimmy realises impassively. He’s got a hunch as to who the poor sod will be that will get assigned the task of wielding a putty knife and fixing that window. And somehow he suspects Mr Carson will _not_ choose the freakishly tall footman for this job (the one who might actually reach the window, without having to climb on a chair or stepladder), but the one to whom the task will be most uncomfortable to fulfil … After all, that is essentially Jimmy’s role here at Downton: nobody likes him; nobody is on his side, least of all his superior Mr Carson.

 

“Why … why would you do something like this for _me_?” Jimmy finally manages to ask the other man in a voice that's raspy with strain. He is gripping the piano stool with both of his white-knuckled hands where he’s sitting, waiting for Barrow’s response.

 

The sounds of the typewriter across the hall have long died down, indicating that Mr Carson has decided to retire to bed a long time ago.

 

Barrow doesn’t reply at first. And for a terrible moment, Jimmy fears the man’s going to say, ‘You know why,’ again.

 

But then, when Barrow finally clears his throat and opens his mouth to speak, it’s something else entirely, something different and all the more poignant.

 

“For reasons … that you’re well aware of,” the man says quietly, black lashes cast down, looking anywhere but at Jimmy, “I’ll never have a family of my own,” thus breaking his own rule not to touch the subject.

 

Jimmy sucks in a sharp breath, trying to conceal his surprise.

 

But Barrow isn’t paying him any attention, anyway; his fingers are absently turning the cigarette card on the table over and over as he stares out the window. It’s not as if there’s anything to be seen out there. It’s dark outside, after all. The only thing visible in the small pitch-black square of the cellar window above them is probably the reflection of Jimmy’s blond hair and maybe the dead fly Jimmy has noticed lying on the window frame earlier, tiny black legs up in the air, buried in a grave of dust, having died a twofold death: from the cold and from being trapped behind the glass pane …

 

Then Barrow resumes his tale in the same quiet, seemingly distracted tone, and Jimmy holds his breath again.

 

“It would be nice not to have to come home to an empty house every day … Granted, I won’t see much of the house, what with working long hours over here. But at least, someone will always be there, waiting for me … Mrs Petersen beat me at chess the last time I was in York, the old Danish devil,” Barrow admits with a smile that’s more sheepish than Jimmy would have thought possible on the man’s usually so composed face. “And I haven’t managed to get back at her for that yet. It would be nice to have someone to play chess with late at night, on the terrace behind the house, in the summer … If it _ever_ gets really warm again, that is,” he adds with a wistful little chuckle, bashfully casting down his eyes again and tracing Natacha Rambova’s turban on the cigarette card with his nail. Then he whispers, “It’d be nice to have someone to go home to … To _have_ a home … To have someone to look after, someone who’d be happy to see me … I’m not twenty anymore, Jimmy. I don’t want to have to live like I’m living now. Not forever.”

 

Jimmy is sitting there, watching the other man with bated breath. He has noticed that Barrow has slipped up and called him ‘Jimmy’, of course. The man is obviously too immersed in what he’s talking about to remember that he has kept the young footman at arm’s length ever since the ‘incident’; he has apparently forgotten that he tries to keep a professional distance between them at all times. Jimmy realises that he would probably even get away with touching him right now; the man is so distracted.

 

And for a moment there, when Barrow’s uttered the words, ‘For reasons … that you’re well aware of,’ earlier, this all-too-familiar need to just leap up from his seat and hug the man has grown almost overwhelming in Jimmy’s chest.

 

Not that he’d actually do it, of course. But he _has_ contemplated it for a moment. There’s just something so terribly sincere about the way Barrow has told his simple tale, so much loneliness and pain wrapped up in every single word, that Jimmy wishes he could do something, anything to change this frightful fate that Barrow has had hanging over his head for years and that will continue to haunt him till the day he dies.

 

“It would be nice to _not_ have to go and get plastered in a pub somewhere on my half-day just because there’s nothing else to do,” Barrow continues in that same soft, low voice, “Or to have to sit in that blasted cinema in Thirsk on my Sunday afternoons and to hate every minute of it and–”

 

“What? Who hates the cinema?!” Jimmy laughs perplexed, surprising himself with his sudden outburst.

 

“ _I_ do,” Barrow shrugs, smiling apologetically. “It’s just not my kind of thing. Too much music, not enough words.”

 

At least he isn't staring vacantly into space anymore.

 

“But …” Jimmy clears his throat, giving a slightly embarrassed chuckle, “the cinema lets us escape into another world. It makes us … you know … dream.”

 

“Well, I don’t _want_ to dream. One has to get by in this world here, and I intend to.” The man grabs the little box lying on the table and taps out a new cigarette, lighting it with a quick flick of his thumb. He looks as if he's suddenly come awake.

 

“Actually,” he says with renewed vigour in his voice, “you would be doing me the most tremendous favour, James.”

 

“What, by renting two rooms from you that I wouldn't even have to pay for?”

 

“Oh, yes,” Barrow nods. “As I said, er … a house needs to be lived in. There needs to be someone to air the rooms while I’m out. Wouldn’t want to diminish the value of the property by causing dampness or by attracting vermin. Oh, and someone has to keep the fires burning in winter, or else the pipes will freeze and burst. And if I’m never there and the house is always dark and silent, how do I know it won’t attract burglars? No, no. A house shouldn’t be empty. It needs someone to actually be living in it. Properly. Not just from dusk till dawn … I intended to hire somebody to house-sit … But now … with this unexpected new opportunity …” He shrugs again, taking a drag from his cigarette.

 

“So, what you’re saying is that … that I would be doing you _a favour_?”

 

“A great one, yes.”

 

“And that I’d be doing Mrs Petersen a favour? And Eddie? And, by extension, myself? And the only thing I would have to overcome to achieve all this is …” He gulps. “… my pride?”

 

“If that’s how you want to put it.” Barrow casually leans back in his chair. “I’ll understand if you say no, of course,” he repeats his earlier statement. “It’s your decision.”

 

“But … but …” Jimmy’s brain scrambles to come up with another excuse to refuse, sensing already that his pride is fighting a losing battle there. “But everyone would find out about Eddie. I dread to think how Carson will react. He’ll sack me.”

 

Barrow squints his eyes at Jimmy the way he always does, raising the hand with the cigarette to his dark red lips and inhaling. “We’ll find a way to break it to him gently.”

 

“Will we?”

 

A small smirk crosses Barrow’s face; it seems suddenly as if he’s in his element. “Oh, I’m sure we will think of something.”

 

Jimmy regards him for a moment, not sure what to think of this.

 

“I have to admit that I don’t know if I’ll be a good landlord,” Barrow states, exhaling some smoke towards the ceiling. “I’ve never been a landlord before, after all. But at least, I’ll mostly be out of their hair, what with being here all the time.”

 

“Well, anyone will be better than the landlady they currently have,” Jimmy says with a dry laugh.

 

It’s true, he knows suddenly. Anything would be infinitely better than the situation Jimmy has put his son in. Anything would. But what Barrow is offering him isn’t just anything. It’s so much more.

 

Jimmy takes a deep breath. If he has started to forget how to play the piano, if his fingers have begun to lose their strength and precision, perhaps it is now time he got better at something else entirely. He will never again find that brilliant tone he has once had, but maybe it is now time to become brilliant at something else. He cannot bring his parents back; he cannot stop his brain from deleting more and more of his memories, however painful it may be to lose the image of their smiles and the recollection of their voices, but he _can_ try to make sure that _his_ child will have a father. One who’s there for him, one who is actually part of his life and not just a spectre appearing every other week. He remembers how happy his own childhood was and that that was mainly thanks to his parents. Because they were _there_. That’s all.

 

He cannot bring them back to life, but at least he can try to give his son the childhood he deserves: he can be a part of his life.

 

For a moment, Jimmy doesn’t know where to look because he suddenly knows what his answer will be. _‘God, that was even quicker than your decision to go for that flipping marriage back then,’_ he realises with a strange sense of agitation in his chest.

 

Barrow, for his part, suddenly ducks his head, smoke curling up around him like a mountain stream freely flowing towards its destination, grey eyes fixed on the piano behind Jimmy. “Look, I know you don’t like to take help from others … least of all from me,” he adds, his voice cracking on the last word. It’s strange, but for a brief moment, it seems as if the man were just as embarrassed about the whole situation as Jimmy, a slight blush blooming on his high cheekbones. “You don’t take help. On principle. You want to make it on your own. And actually … I respect that. I admire it even,” the man admits to Jimmy’s surprise. “You take pride in not asking for help, and I can assure you I’d be the last one to tell you that pride’s a bad thing. It’s just that … We always think it’s brave to struggle our way through life on our own, but sometimes it’s the braver, wiser move to take help when it’s offered. To do that requires far more courage and character; it takes a greater man to accept help when it’s offered.”

 

“But how could I ever take that from you and not feel guilty about it? How can this ever feel right?” Jimmy whispers. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t feel like I'm in your debt?”

  
“You’re my friend,” Barrow says simply, an impossible warmth in his gaze all of a sudden. “And Edward is my friend’s child.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

The news that Jimmy has got a secret child hits Downton like a bombshell. For a day, it seems as if there’s no other matter to be discussed, dissected and gossiped about upstairs and below, and Jimmy wishes, more than once, for the ground to open up beneath his feet and swallow him whole.

 

Every time he turns a corner, there is some wide-eyed maid or open-mouthed hallboy standing there, staring at him, silent curiosity in their unblinking eyes telling him that the news has already travelled this far. He even supposes that each time the rumours are retold, another son or daughter is added to the story. Until finally, he will be depicted as someone who has spawned an entire busload of secret children.

 

There are, for example, those three laundry maids in their white mob-caps and starched aprons, standing there in the downstairs hallway, bursting into giggles the moment Jimmy walks by, whispering something to one another in hushed tones. (As Jimmy hurries past them, he glimpses, like in a snapshot, the way one of them holds an old washboard in front of her bosom, reddened, raw skin extending from her broken fingernails all across the wrists and up to her elbows, the skin on her knuckles dry and cracked from the lye soap she uses day in, day out to scrub other people’s bed linen and towels clean. And for some reason, that still image of her work-roughened hands stays with him like the blow-up of a photograph, a picture frozen in mid-frame, while all the whispering and chuckling is quickly muted by his memory into a bizarre silent film scene.)

 

Yes, it’s as if he’s suddenly moving through an expressionist film set, a somnambulist in a picture show at the cinema, reduced to an extra with a walk-on part in his own life, staggering about through the artificial fog and stumbling headfirst into the walls of the scenery, all in a dreamlike state and completely clueless as to what he is supposed to do with no lines and no direction, waiting for the curtain to drop on his celluloid ‘glory’.

 

And that heavy curtain is about to come down on the final act of his stint here at Downton. Because once the news reaches Mr Carson’s formidable ears, the situation stops being just annoying and becomes downright frightening.

 

“James, my office. Now!” Carson’s booming voice echoes in the downstairs corridors.

 

For a moment, everything goes quiet. The laundry maids in the hall seem frozen in shock, their mob-caps the only things still moving in a simultaneous, barely perceptible tremor like the little white heads of snowdrops being ruffled by a harsh wind in early spring. Through the open door, Jimmy can hear that everyone in the servants’ hall has fallen silent as well, the usual hum of work, gentle clanking of teacups and low murmur of voices stopping as if controlled by the hand of an invisible conductor or film director. Even the kitchens are suddenly enveloped in absolute silence, which is a rather rare occurrence. (Just a moment ago, Mrs Patmore was still shouting something about ‘courgettes that need chopping’ at Daisy, who, in turn, was yelling at Ivy that ‘that aubergine won’t cut itself to bits’.)

 

Jimmy shuffles his feet, giving the maids a forced smile, trying to look as if he doesn’t know that a heavy storm is brewing on the horizon.

 

“ _If_ you would step into my office for a moment, James,” Carson growls in a low voice. And there’s no Mr Barrow there to give Jimmy any reassuring looks from across the hall, no one to calm his nerves or buoy him up.

 

Once Jimmy has shut the door behind himself, he squints at the butler perched regally upon his leather-covered chair behind the desk.

 

The office itself gives the impression of a gloomy cave, with the brass bankers’ lamp on Carson’s desk switched off and just some grey light filtering in through the small grilled cellar window.

 

For a moment, all that can be heard is the soft, yet insistent ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and the faint patter of rain outside as Carson’s eyes silently bore into Jimmy’s from under his massive eyebrows. Despite the all-pervading cold downstairs, the air in the room feels almost stifling, and when Jimmy moves his shoulders uncomfortably, there’s a sudden ‘pop’ in his neck, that seems overly loud in the small room, making it appear as if the sound got trapped inside a cardboard box.

 

Then Carson clears his throat and announces in a thunderous voice, “It has come to my attention, James, that you are father to … _a child_!”

 

 _‘Well, who did you think I was father to? A lion cub? … Of course, it’s a child!’_ Jimmy thinks bitterly. Out loud he says, “That is correct, Mr Carson,” squirming under the silent crescendo of the butler’s withering gaze, his throat suddenly as dry as dusty old paper.

 

“So, does my memory deceive me, then? Or did you choose not to divulge this particular information to us when you entered His Lordship’s employ? … Would you care to explain yourself … _sir_?”

 

Jimmy has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from shouting at the man. But what exactly he would be shouting he doesn’t know, and so he remains silent, standing there, feeling a bead of sweat trickle down between his shoulder blades and something like a vice clench around his chest. He clears his throat once, twice, but doesn’t seem to be able to get anything out.

 

“I …” he whispers guiltily, fidgeting where he’s standing like a pupil about to be scolded by a master, trying to avoid eye contact with the imposing man looming majestically behind his massive oak desk.

 

He casts his eyes down, looking at the small, gold-rimmed magnifying glass on Carson’s desk instead. He knows that the butler picks it up by its handle sometimes to read the small print in his paperwork, but, right now, Jimmy feels as if its gleaming single eye is directed at him in a menacing glare. It’s essentially as if _he’s_ become the small print now.

 

“Why haven’t you told us?” Carson presses on in an almost animal-like growl.

 

Jimmy closes his eyes. That’s it. He’s going to get sacked now. And who knows what’ll become of Eddie then.

 

Jimmy doesn’t read the papers with the same enthusiasm as Barrow, but even _he_ knows that the economy is in steep decline at the moment. Finding work is nigh on impossible these days, as he knows all too well from his own experience of knocking on countless doors after handing in his notice to the Dowager Lady Anstruther. It seems so illogical and unfair, all things considered. After all, a large percentage of men didn’t make it back from the war. One would think any and all kinds of workforce would be in high demand. But that isn’t the case at all (unless one is a highly trained cook or French governess or something). Jimmy doesn’t understand it, but amongst unskilled workers like him, the unemployment rate is astronomically high right now; it has been for several consecutive years and doesn’t show even the slightest sign of improvement. Barrow has tried to explain it to him several times, in the evenings in the servants’ hall – something about the gold standard and a deflationary downward spiral and high interest rates – but Jimmy would be lying if he said that he’s understood any of it.

 

 _‘That’s it, then,’_ he thinks bitterly, drawing a deep breath. _‘The moment I open my mouth to try and explain myself, Carson will shout me down, talk over me and announce that he will have to let me go … Poor Eddie to have a father like me! He’d deserve better.’_

 

Jimmy’s palms start sweating where he’s standing, trying not to sway as his knees go weak with panic all of a sudden. _‘Now what? The soup kitchen? Eating out of rubbish bins? Stealing milk from other people’s doorsteps?’_

 

But before Jimmy can so much as say a word, Carson clears his throat again. “Why haven’t you told us about your _bereavement_ , that is?” the butler then clarifies in a slightly softer voice.

 

Jimmy looks up at him in surprise.

 

There is a deep crease between the man’s enormous eyebrows now, and his usually stern face has taken on an expression of concern. It’s the same expression that seems to unwittingly appear on his face whenever Lady Mary is mentioned these days, especially when talk comes to her never leaving her room anymore. Carson’s face is much more deeply furrowed and creased ever since Matthew Crawley has died in that motorcar accident, more weathered somehow. And Jimmy has noticed lately that the butler looks downright old and defeated whenever he returns from one of his visits to Lady Mary’s room.

 

So, it’s not the first time that Jimmy has seen this worried expression on his superior’s face: he’s seen its heralds after Lady Sybil’s funeral, those first signs of dark sorrow creeping across his face, those first black shadows around his eyes, those worry lines etched (more deeply than ever) into his tired features. And he sees traces of it in the corners of Carson’s eyes every time Branson picks up his little daughter to hold her close. But it’s worst when the butler returns from upstairs, having spent an hour or two in Lady Mary’s company, a strange emptiness in his eyes, his shoulders slumped. It’s at times like these that everyone downstairs knows not to bother the man and to stay out of his way.

 

Yes, upon closer inspection, Carson looks more like a deposed king than like the ruler of the downstairs empire that he’s supposed to be. He is still sitting on his throne, of course, but he looks resigned and beaten down now, as if he’s lost some unknown and unnamed battle, as if he’s got smaller all of a sudden, as if all that’s still sitting there were his large, shell-like suit, while he himself has shrunk and deflated inside of it. He doesn’t look angry anymore, Jimmy notices with surprise, the pale eyes under the man’s bushy eyebrows having turned unfocussed and empty, his stubby fingers playing idly with the marble ink blotter on his desk, rocking it back and forth, back and forth … The thing seems to move in unison with the thoughts Carson is turning over in his mind, its yellowed underside with the old ink-stained blotting paper appearing and disappearing in front of Jimmy’s eyes, the blue-black inkblots flitting across his line of sight like silent ghosts of all the words ever written here at Downton.

 

It’s as if, all of a sudden, Carson doesn’t even expect Jimmy to reply anymore, as if he’s forgotten what he’s asked him, caught up as he is in his own dark thoughts.

 

To Jimmy’s surprise, the butler then sighs deeply and mutters, “You see … Had we known about … about your loss, we would have, ahem, responded accordingly. Of course, you will understand that I cannot offer you a raise in remuneration. However … His Lordship has always insisted that widows and, er, widowers be granted several _additional_ days off around Christmas and Easter.”

 

He then proceeds to roll his tired eyes as if to say that he thinks Lord Grantham goes a bit too far with the sentimentality.

 

(It’s just a quick eye-roll and a pained little sigh, that’s supposed to convey exasperated indulgence along the lines of _‘Well, what can you do?’_ That’s supposed to demonstrate that he, Charles Carson, is of course above such sentimental nonsense. But it comes out weak somehow, forced and hollow. As if he had once thought so, as if he had once prided himself in being able to show a firm hand with the servants – orphans and widows alike – but as if, by now, only a pale shadow of his former more disciplined, more stern self has remained, as if he’s started to lie to himself over time, trying to pretend, to no avail, that his façade is still up, that he’s remained unchanged, untouched and unmoved by the tides of time, that all the devastating grief in the house hasn’t had any effect on him, whilst in reality it has hollowed out everything, rendering his eye-rolling and sighing woefully unconvincing and turning it into an empty ritual, a mechanical, meaningless gesture, a mere exercise in Carsonian disapproval.)

 

“Several additional days off,” the man repeats with an air of distracted importance. “And Her Ladyship usually requests that a condolence card be sent,” he adds, as if that were a particularly great boon.

 

“So … I’m not sacked?” Jimmy dares to ask in a small voice.

 

“Well, _James_ …” The butler gives a dry little cough, grabbing one of the wooden penholders that have been rolling about on his desk and picking up a box of steel pen nibs, as if he’s already contemplating drafting Lady Grantham’s condolence card. (Jimmy can hear the steel nibs rattle around inside the cardboard box as Carson shakes one out into his open palm. _‘Perry & Co. – Birmingham. Aluminium-coated,’_ it says on the box in ornate letters.)

 

“… I won’t say that I’m happy with your decision to keep this vital piece of information to yourself,” Carson then grumbles on. “Telling the truth is, of course, _always_ of paramount importance whilst working in a prestigious and highly sought-after position such as the one of the first footman in a grand house. And a lie of omission remains _a lie_ , young man, which is hardly befitting someone of your station … _But_ … from what I have been told, the, er … _child_ in question is, in fact, a boy?”

 

“Edward, yes,” Jimmy confirms quickly, not really understanding what that’s got to do with anything.

 

“Of course,” Carson nods approvingly, eyes focussed on the wooden nib-holder in his hand as he attaches one of the steel nibs to it. “Named after our late King.”

 

 _‘Not really, no,’_ Jimmy thinks, but he doesn’t voice that thought, nodding instead.

 

“Well, I am, of course, aware of how many sons of this nation perished in the service of King and country,” Carson ploughs on, undeterred. “Their noble sacrifice will never be forgotten, of course, and we shall remain forever in their debt. But that doesn’t change the tragedy of this loss, which can only be remedied if England cherishes each and every single son born into her midst to renew her blood. It is of the utmost importance that the Crown be able to draw on a new generation of young men willing to lay their lives upon the altar of the Empire.”

 

 _‘In other words, if I had made the unfortunate ‘mistake’ of fathering a girl, I’d have been out on my ear on the spot,’_ Jimmy thinks, snorting darkly and feeling something twist painfully in his stomach where he is still standing to attention in the middle of the office.

 

“And, seeing as it is … indeed, ahem, one of those _sons_ we are talking about here,” Carson continues, his voice a deep flustered rumble, “one of those for whom England ought to make sacrifices – even hard and bitter ones – it is only just and proper that _I_ make sacrifices, as well … No, no, James …” The butler extends his large, chubby hand at that, as if to stop him, then continues in a sickeningly generous voice, “… there is no need to be thanking me, I assure you. It is only morally right to do so, after all. So, no need to express your gratitude, James. Yes … yes, I _will_ do you the great favour of letting you stay on. But mind you, it is only for the unfortunate boy in question,” he adds in a warning tone. “And only because I’ve been told that it would look unpatriotic if I let you go and your boy were to suffer because of it … It has been brought to my attention that this could be construed as treasonous, cowardly and selfish, as an ignoble act of desertion, nay, defection unworthy of an upstanding Englishman.”

 

 _‘Brought to your attention? By whom?’_ Jimmy wonders, trying hard not to let his confusion show. _‘By Mrs Hughes? Can’t really imagine there’s anyone else you’d be inclined to take advice from.’_

 

“Honour is, after all, _all_ we have got on the arduous journey of our earthly life,” Carson continues his lecture. “And, as a self-respecting subject of His Majesty, I am not willing to jeopardise that, James. Because I know that patriotism is the one true love that transcends even a child’s love for his mother, in that it offers us sanctuary in the bosom of the civilised world and distinguishes us from the coloured people in the colonies– … James? _James?!_ Are you listening to any of this?!”

 

“Er … Yes, Mr Carson. _Of course_!” Jimmy exclaims, snapping out of his half daze and feigning rapt attention.

 

“Good. I was under the impression that you were rolling your eyes just now.”

 

“‘Course not, Mr Carson!”

 

“Right, er, where was I?”

 

“The bosom of coloured people …?”

 

“Don’t try to be clever with me, boy! This is a valuable lesson for you to learn! Erm … ahem … as I was saying, patriotism is the one stable anchor in an unstable world, and our being welcomed into the midst of this great nation by King and country is, of course, a direct reflection of the love our Creator has bestowed upon us, His creation,” the butler explains importantly, but it still sounds strangely as if he’s trying to recall and repeat somebody else’s words, as if he has memorised them and is reciting them now. “It is this patriotic honour that makes life worthwhile and, thus, is worth all our devotion, allegiance and loyalty. It is worth even the greatest sacrifice and heaviest burden … Keeping a troublemaker such as yourself under this roof, young man, _is_ a burden, I will freely admit it. But I understand that it is a necessary evil if we want to protect a young and otherwise defenceless subject of the Crown such as your son … That being said … you _do_ , of course, understand that I will be keeping a close eye on you,” the butler then adds after a beat, the leather rustling as he shifts in his seat.

 

He seems to have grown in front of Jimmy’s eyes over the last few minutes, his bearing projecting authority and self-imposed importance again, his starched white waistcoat straining over his wide chest and well-rounded belly now, which makes him look a bit like one of those penguins Jimmy once saw at the circus.

 

“O-of course, Mr Carson,” Jimmy says quickly, thinking, _‘Well, aren’t you a basket of sunshine and cheer today?!’_

 

The butler nods distractedly to himself again, drumming his chubby fingers on the corked bottle of iron gall ink in front of him.

 

“And I expect you to fulfil all of the tasks assigned to you promptly, properly and on time,” he harrumphs, wagging a warning forefinger at Jimmy. “There cannot be _any_ leeway on this. Absolutely none, James. I won't tolerate even the slightest deviation from my orders.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“You will carry out all of your duties as though there were no child … as though there never has been … _Do_ you understand me?”

 

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. You won’t even notice that he’s there,” Jimmy replies, feeling his pulse quicken again as it begins to sink in that he might, just _might_ , get away with this, after all.

 

That he might get to stay here instead of having to sleep rough on the streets with the other paupers and turn to vagrancy, begging, stealing, and eating out of skips. That he might not have to send Eddie to Blue Coat or some other overcrowded, disease-ridden and insanitary orphanage, where he’d have to constantly fear for the boy’s life – be it because of the typhoid fever outbreaks or the bouts of pneumonia and tuberculosis running rampant in those godforsaken places. That somebody has insinuated something to Mr Carson, stirring his patriotic blood to the point where he’d be willing to overlook Jimmy’s transgressions. Yes, it is at this point that Jimmy begins to realise that he might come out of this unscathed – if only by the skin of his teeth.

 

“We cannot have dawdling servants who don’t know their place, are uppity, unreliable, unstable, unwilling or unable to fulfil the duties that this house is so kind as to be paying them for. We cannot and will not tolerate disloyalty of any kind … You will have to work just as hard, nay, harder than before to regain my trust. Are we clear?”

 

“Absolutely, Mr Carson,” Jimmy replies, his back now ramrod straight, yet still trembling where he is standing in front of the stern old butler.

 

“Do not think me unsympathetic, James. I suppose there’s no one who could understand the difficult situation you have found yourself in better than the people in this house,” Carson continues his tale in a more generous voice again, thus confirming Jimmy’s earlier suspicions that he has, indeed, gone a bit soft over the past few months, that, sometime between that lorry hitting Mr Crawley’s AC Six and little fatherless George crying in his arms for the first time, the once-feared butler has lost his bite and become more lenient towards all of them. “Ahem, please …” The man gives another uncomfortable cough. “… do accept my condolences on your wife’s passing, James. I know this must be a time of hardship for you.”

 

 _‘Oh! So, he thinks I’ve just lost her,’_ Jimmy finally realises. _‘On the day when that telegram arrived.’_

 

Well, if that’s what the man would like to think, then Jimmy won’t correct him. Apparently, it is this assumption (amongst other things) that has just saved Jimmy’s sorry behind. _‘He probably thinks we’ve been separated for years and that now that my estranged wife has died, the boy has ended up with me.’_

 

“Th-that’s very kind of you, sir,” he stammers, treading from one foot to the other.

 

Carson nods regally again as if to say that he, indeed, thinks of himself as very, very benevolent and kind. The man’s tired old eyes are already scanning the words _‘Stephens’ blue-black writing ink; always fluid and reliable; 2 fl oz, 6 d’_ on the cork-sealed bottle in front of him as he picks up his brand-new (still unused) dip pen and, seemingly out of habit, brushes it across the nib wiper on his desk with a distracted expression on his face.

 

Then he raises his eyes at Jimmy again, surprise registering on his features, that seem to say, _‘Are you still here?’_ and Jimmy knows that, technically, he is dismissed now.

 

But he can’t leave just like that, staying rooted to the spot where he is standing. It’s the nerves probably. Because suddenly he blurts out, “So, can I really stay?”

 

Carson looks up at him in puzzlement for a moment. “In my office? Certainly not! You may go and attend to whatever task it was that– … Oh, you mean _here at Downton_? I thought I had made that abundantly clear already, young man. As long as you follow my orders to the letter … Mine and Mr Barrow’s, that is,” he adds with a dismissive wave of his hand, half muttering to himself, half to the ink bottle he has just picked up.

 

It’s at this point that Jimmy suddenly remembers …

 

“Eddie will be living at Mr Barrow’s new house,” he says quickly.

 

“Who?” The confused furrow between the butler’s eyebrows couldn’t possibly be any deeper; he is frowning so hard. “Oh – the child, you mean. Yes … yes …” It is almost funny how quickly he seems to have forgotten the topic of their earlier conversation.

 

With this low growl, the man then looks away from Jimmy again and unstops the ink bottle in his hand, measuring out some of the writing fluid into the bulldog-shaped marble inkwell on his desk.

 

The smell that fills the air at that moment is strong and fusty, a mix of evaporating ink and downstairs humidity. Jimmy doesn’t like the scent of ink. He never has. But even that cannot spoil his mood right now. It’s a familiar smell. The smell of home. Of Downton. Because yes, given the choice between having to turn to a workhouse and living at Downton, he would always choose the latter over the former. He can stay. It’s true. It’s real. With a roof over his head and food to keep him from starving. With Eddie close by and looked after. It is more than he has ever dared to hope for. It is …

 

“Are you still standing there? Has the iceman not come yet? I thought Mrs Patmore had asked you and Alfred to chop up some ice blocks for her … Now, would you kindly get to that, James?!”

 

Jimmy snaps out of his dreamlike daze again. “Aye aye, sir,” he stammers, quickly turning round to leave. Behind himself, he can hear Carson tut-tut something about “young people and their language these days,” under his breath. “What is this? The Bounty? Am I about to be set afloat in a shallop by mutineers?”

 

As Jimmy reaches for the brass door knob, he can make out the rustle of paper behind himself that indicates that Carson is already engrossed in his work again, drafting a letter of condolence for him or getting back to scribbling something in his Domesday Book – or whatever it is that a butler does when he isn’t scolding the staff.

  
And at that, Jimmy exits the room as quietly as possible.

 

\---

 

When he steps outside into the corridor, Jimmy almost collides with one of Downton’s peskier hallboys, who has apparently been standing there the whole time with one of his protruding, reddened ears pressed to the keyhole, passing on all the fresh intelligence obtained in this way to the rest of the group gathered in the downstairs hallway in a heated whisper.

 

As the hallboy flees down the corridor like a scared headless chicken, Jimmy suddenly catches sight of all the people loitering about in the vicinity of Carson’s office in pretend-casual poses, leaning against the walls or poking their heads through the many open doors lining the gloomy hallway, all quite keen not to appear too interested, their eyes focussed on their feet or inspecting their fingernails, yet furiously curious nonetheless.

 

To Jimmy’s utter surprise, there is one person, though, who seems to behave differently to the rest of the bog-standard nosy-servant types gathered in the hallway. One person who appears to be genuinely worried, exhibiting clear signs of nervousness.

 

And that person is Alfred, who’s currently pacing the floor like a father-to-be nervously awaiting the delivery of his child. It’s quite astonishing, actually, how upset the good-natured footman is about Jimmy’s potentially facing the sack – and all of that despite the fact that all of Jimmy’s anger and impatience are usually directed at him.

 

And there’s something else that’s a bit odd about the scene Jimmy manages to catch a glimpse of in that split second before everyone’s eyes suddenly turn to him: Barrow looks as if he hasn’t got a single worry in the world, as though nothing were wrong at all. He isn’t fidgeting like Alfred, and he isn’t giggling nervously like Ivy and the maids in the corner. He looks surprisingly relaxed, calmly leaning against that door frame, blowing out long plumes of smoke, one hand hanging by his side, cigarette smouldering between his lean fingers. It’s a strange sight. As if he is completely untouched by all the commotion around him, his shoulders a line of relaxed certainty, his half-closed eyes two dark-lashed curves over the chiselled calm of his cheekbones.

 

But before Jimmy can even begin to wonder about that, he realises that all eyes are suddenly on him, everyone looking petrified, as if a film reel at the cinema had somehow got torn or stuck and had made every actor up on the silver screen freeze in place, right in the middle of their scene.

 

And again, it’s the burning intensity in Alfred’s eyes that surprises Jimmy.

 

“Well?” the tall footman asks, proving, with his question, that the hallboy-turned-informant hasn’t managed to catch the entire conversation between Carson and Jimmy.

 

“I …” Jimmy takes a deep, long breath. “I’m not sacked. I can stay on.”

 

The hall erupts in congratulatory cheers and applause at that. (It’s a far more positive reaction than Jimmy would have dared to hope for. Maybe his colleagues don’t really hate him, after all. Or maybe the fact that they see him as a widowed father now has made them rethink the way they feel about him.)

 

As his confused brain still tries to work out what is going on, they all start crowding around him, congratulating him and shaking both his hands with surprising enthusiasm. And Anna announces, “Your son should be so proud of you, Jimmy,” which causes him to flinch inwardly.

 

For a moment, he doesn’t know where to look, his ever-present fear that Eddie might, in fact, come to hate him in the not-too-distant future rearing its ugly head again. He considers a nasty retort because nastiness is what he usually resorts to whenever he feels defensive and insecure, but Anna, who has been working two jobs ever since the dreadful Miss O’Brien left, has already disappeared down the corridor again, making room for Ivy.

 

The kitchen maid appears in his line of sight and makes a point of looking deep into his eyes, rubbing his upper arm in what is probably supposed to convey how glad she is that he hasn’t been let go.

 

It’s funny how the same kitchen maid who, just a few hours ago, had only had eyes for Wright, the visiting valet, now seems to have forgotten about him, reverting back to her earlier obsession with Jimmy. Apparently, being a single father beats being six feet tall and doe-eyed by a mile. (Not that Jimmy is particularly happy with her rekindled interest in him.)

 

Alfred, for his part, doesn’t think twice and throws both his long arms around Jimmy, hugging him tightly to himself, a gesture that is made half awkward by their difference in height (or possibly by the fact that Jimmy is never entirely sure how the other footman can still stand him and why he is so patient and forgiving of all of Jimmy’s moods).

 

Once Alfred releases him, Jimmy gives a half startled, half choked laugh or gasp, still surprised by all that’s going on around him. He tries to catch sight of Barrow again and realises that the man is still standing there, calm and poised and beautiful like an illustration from _The Tailor & Cutter_, one side of his face cast in the shadow of the gloomy corridor, the sharp plane of his other cheek outlined by the light streaming in through the open door next to him. There’s … something in the way the underbutler holds his cigarette, Jimmy notices, something in that seemingly effortless half-turn of the man’s elegant wrist, that exudes confidence and control.

 

And it’s at that precise moment that it hits Jimmy: Barrow knew.

 

He’s known all along that Jimmy wouldn’t get sacked.

 

It was _he_ , not Mrs Hughes, who talked Mr Carson out of it. It was _he_ who hit the butler’s weak spot by appealing to his patriotism and sense of duty.

 

And there’s something else that’s astonishing about all of this: Barrow usually makes a point of never talking about the war.

 

It’s a silence that’s conspicuous – even for someone who is always fairly tight-lipped about his personal life. It’s a silence that’s there to rein in the demons that would undoubtedly resurface the moment one called them by their name. It’s only a coincidence, really, that Jimmy even knows about Barrow’s having served as a medic. He wouldn’t if it hadn’t been for Eddie’s illness and that telegram on that rainy day …

 

Because, like most men who have survived the war that only fools dare call ‘great’, Barrow never talks about his experiences in the trenches, never mentions the horrific slaughter at all. Not to capitalise on other people’s sympathy, not to persuade anyone that he is deserving of their respect, not even to score points with Carson or His Lordship. No, he doesn’t use it to his advantage in any way. He behaves as if it’s never happened, as if he has managed to banish it from his memory once and for all. (Which is almost certainly a lie, judging by the way his gloved hand shakes ever-so-slightly each time he’s got to lift a heavy tray. Jimmy usually notices it, of course. But Barrow would probably rather bite his own tongue off than admit it or use it as an excuse to avoid work. Even though he usually doesn’t hesitate to use every conceivable excuse to do so.) The man doesn’t even show that wound to anyone, hiding it under his glove and never so much as mentioning it in conversation.

 

Yes, _that_ is the man who walked into Mr Carson’s office earlier today and persuaded the butler to keep Jimmy on. _That_ is the man who convinced Carson by broaching a subject he usually tries to steer clear of because he loathes talking about it: the World War. A man who did what he hates most. Just to help Jimmy.

 

And apparently, Barrow got through to Carson by appealing to the one thing that Carson tries so desperately to hide underneath his grumpy, grouchy façade: his sense of guilt.

 

When they had all received their call-up papers, Carson had already been too old for conscription. A fact that had, much to the butler’s dismay, put him into the same group as the feeble-minded, cripples and womenfolk … and worse still: conscientious objectors.

 

Of course, Carson would never admit it, but that’s the reason why he gets so defensive and indignant the moment anyone so much as mentions the war, usually grunting something along the lines of, “Surely, it cannot have been _that_ bad if Mr Barrow has made it out in one piece.”

 

Of course, it’s easier to just roundly (and harshly) dismiss other people’s heroism and courage as trivial if you can’t otherwise live with yourself. Of course, it’s easier to just grumble to yourself and trot off when you can’t face the guilt nor the cognitive dissonance of being a proud patriot who didn’t serve in uniform. When every passing mention of the war, even the most innocuous remark, feels like a slap in the face, a white feather handed to you by your own bad conscience.

 

Yes, in retrospect, it’s this incoherent grumbling that should have tipped Jimmy off a long time ago: Deep down, Mr Carson feels guilty. (It’s irrational, but he _does_.)

 

Guilty for not having been there. Guilty for not having served his country. And _that’s_ the reason why Carson constantly feels the need to belittle Barrow and downplay the man’s sacrifice and everything he has gone through during the war.

 

Jimmy hadn’t realised it. Not until now. Barrow, with his keener sense for other people's weak spots, had known it all along, but had apparently chosen not to act on it, not to use this knowledge of Carson’s repressed feelings of guilt to his own advantage. (He had probably been reluctant to do so since that would have required him to bring up the war.)

 

But something’s changed. And _that something_ is apparently important enough for Barrow to break his own rule. Barrow has finally gone for the butler’s Achilles’ heel; he has played this self-important blimp-of-a-man, using every trick in the book.

 

Obviously, it’s a huge, a colossal favour that Barrow has done Jimmy, and yet the man has been standing there the entire time as if nothing had happened, calm, relaxed and in control, patiently waiting for Carson’s door to open and reveal Jimmy, waiting for his plan to play out the way he has mapped it out in his mind, waiting for his turn to congratulate Jimmy on something that Jimmy hasn’t had any part in and that, in reality, has been all _his_ (Barrow’s) work.

 

There’s a lump in Jimmy’s throat the size of his painfully throbbing heart, and while he’s still staring at the underbutler, trying to work up the courage to thank him for all that the man has done for him, something quite extraordinary happens:

 

They’re all still excitedly chattering away around him – Daisy is currently telling him how glad she is that he will be allowed to stay on, adding something that might or might not be her expressing her condolences (Jimmy isn’t really paying attention), but her round eyes seem very sincere and strangely knowing – when Barrow suddenly pushes himself away from the door frame he has been leaning against with one gentle roll of his shoulder blade.

 

For a second, the two of them are facing each other, Jimmy all tongue-tied, red-faced and jittery, and Barrow strangely calm, an unusually soft expression on his face and a warm, secretive glow touching just the corner of his silvery eyes, gleaming along with the cigarette in the man’s hand.

 

The loud voices around Jimmy are still all talking over one another, bombarding him with curious questions about his son and congratulating him on his success with Carson, but they have all faded into a faint, garbled background noise; Jimmy just doesn’t hear them anymore, doesn’t hear all the questions directed at him, doesn’t hear the laughter and the cheers, doesn’t hear Mrs Hughes’s motherly clucking, doesn’t hear Bates’s quiet muttering or Stark’s slurred gibbering, doesn’t hear the puzzled voice of the Dullops’ valet, who has just come down the stairs and is cautiously enquiring as to what is going. All that Jimmy _does_ hear is the soft press of Barrow’s lips against the paper wrapping of his cigarette, followed by a long exhale. It’s as if his world were suddenly zooming in on the nearly black-and-white figure of the shirt-sleeved underbutler next to him.

 

Jimmy starts sweating under his stiff collar again, trying to come up with something to say, then decides to just shake Barrow’s hand as a way of saying thank you. He half extends his hand, then suddenly remembers that Barrow doesn’t like touching him and lets it fall awkwardly by his side again, quickly hiding it behind his back like a schoolboy caught with a crib up the sleeve of his Norfolk jacket. It makes him feel like an absolute idiot, seeing as how the whole charade has, of course, not gone unnoticed by Barrow, whose gaze manages to be as intense as a hawk’s even with his eyes half closed.

 

Jimmy clears his throat in embarrassment. Damn.

 

 _‘Oh, blast it all to hell! Just shake his hand already,’_ he thinks. _‘Stop acting like such a pillock. First in Carson’s office and now again. Are you a child or an adult? Just thank him like a man_ – _with a handshake and a silent nod_ – _and be done with it. It’s not that difficult, for Heaven’s sake,_ he scolds himself.

 

But before Jimmy can extend his shaking hand again, the surprising thing happens.

 

They’re standing next to each other now, facing the same way, shoulder to shoulder in the narrow corridor, their elbows almost touching, only their faces turned towards each other. They’re standing so close that it’s not a particularly difficult thing to do, but it’s so unusual and just downright out of character for Barrow that it still shocks Jimmy into a near heart attack when the underbutler suddenly throws an arm around Jimmy’s shoulders.

 

It’s not a full-on embrace, more of a loose, one-armed side hug with a half pat, half squeeze to Jimmy’s shoulder – or rather to the taut cords of muscle connecting his shoulder to the side of his neck.

 

It’s a gesture that is supposed to convey affection and a sense of casual camaraderie, Jimmy realises, his heart rate all over the place. And yet when Barrow opens his mouth, what he says is, “Congratulations, James!”

 

It sounds wooden and stilted, almost rehearsed, and the smile that Jimmy spies on the man’s face seems forced. It’s only then that Jimmy realises that Barrow’s gesture isn’t for his (Jimmy’s) benefit.

 

It’s a calculated move, executed in a controlled setting in front of almost the entire downstairs staff.

 

Barrow is drawing lines in the sand, clearly demarcating borders for everyone to see, setting boundaries for their friendship in front of a dozen or so witnesses, thus reclaiming the power to define people’s perception of them. And all of that by means of a simple gesture that just screams, _‘See? Everything is all right between the two of us now. We have moved on_ … _James has moved on since that unfortunate ‘incident’. And his son will be staying with me simply because I’m buying a house. I intend to rent out two rooms to James. That’s it. There is literally nothing interesting happening here. Nothing to gossip about. Now get back to work, all of you.’_ Out of the corner of his eye, Jimmy can see that the smile Barrow is giving the others looks like an animal baring its teeth in a snarl, an effect only heightened by the way the man sticks his cigarette between his teeth with a defiant sweep of the hand that isn’t currently clutching Jimmy’s shoulder.

 

It’s at this point that Jimmy realises it: Barrow is _not_ lifting his self-imposed ban on touching Jimmy. This _isn’t_ the beginning of a more relaxed relationship between the two of them. The man would have never done any of this if it hadn’t been for their audience. There is no closeness in this. No intimacy. Nothing will change in the way they interact once they’re on their own again. The ban is still very much in place.

Barrow’s awkward side hug is a gesture of distance, rather than affection, Jimmy realises, suddenly feeling further away from the other man than he has in weeks. This is less, so much less, than the intimate conversations they’ve been having lately in the servants’ hall. Less than the quiet, sincere words Barrow chose to admit to his loneliness and need of companionship.

 

Yes, as ironic as this is, it’s by putting an arm around Jimmy’s shoulder that Barrow is keeping him at arm’s length.

 

 _‘Say thank you,’_ Jimmy remembers suddenly, the firm grip Barrow’s fingers have on the tendons of his neck and shoulder growing almost painful. He would have never thought the man’s slim white hands capable of exerting such force.

 

The cold smell of the downstairs corridor, this mixed scent of dust and humid air from the rain outside, renders Jimmy’s brain sluggish. _‘Be a man and thank him,’_ he repeats to himself inwardly, straightening up where he is standing.

 

But what comes out of his mouth instead is an insecure question in a raspy voice, that is about an octave too low (even for him) and cracks on the last few words as he whispers, “So … what would you have told Carson if my child had been _a girl_ , Mr Barrow?”

 

The other man just shrugs nonchalantly. “Oh, I’d have thought of something.”

 

And just like that, Jimmy knows that it’s true. Yes, yes, Barrow would have! He always does.

 

It’s as if suddenly nothing in the world could shake his faith in this extraordinary man. Yes, he would have thought of something.

 

“How is it that your schemes always work out?” Jimmy breathes with a half smile, voice even softer now to make sure the others won’t catch his words, inclining his face closer to Barrow, who’s still holding him with a steady arm around his shoulder.

 

It’s a look of disbelief and surprise that he sees flare up in Barrow’s eyes at that. Disbelief, surprise and something akin to an ironic smile. An if-only-you-knew of sorts. A fleeting shadow crossing the man’s forehead, a cloud hovering above a calm lake, the seconds hand softly touching the twelve on the clock face of irony, the finger of an imaginary magician going back and forth before Jimmy’s eyes like a metronome, befuddling him and making him question everything he has assumed about the other man. There’s just so much insecurity sparkling away in the dark below the surface of Barrow’s smile, far, far away in the depths of those sad eyes, that, all of a sudden, seem to reflect memories of times long gone by, of hidden secrets and lost battles, of lies told and mistakes made, and of momentous failure engraved upon the tomb of his heart.

 

It’s all there … or, at least, it could be, for all Jimmy knows. Because it’s at that moment that he realises how little he actually knows about Barrow. How wrong he could be on everything he _thinks_ he knows about this man, whose past remains uncharted territory for Jimmy, covered and hidden like that hand that’s still holding the cigarette, this man who, until recently, has been nothing but a total stranger to him.

 

“Well, if that’s what you want to believe …” Barrow whispers back with a small smile, his right tightening even more around Jimmy’s shoulder for a moment.

 

But it doesn’t feel as uncomfortable anymore. Or maybe Jimmy’s just already too far gone at this point, too overwhelmed, too spellbound by the other man’s sudden closeness, by the faint scent of his cologne and the familiar smell of his hair, by the feel of warm breath touching his skin. By how close their faces suddenly are, everything coming into sharp focus and going blurry again in a matter of seconds, the darker specks in Barrow’s steel blue irises, the fine line between his straight brows (barely visible with his face so relaxed, yet undeniably there), the smooth line of his slightly aquiline nose, the faint freckles on top of his cheekbones, the way his raven hair is combed back at an angle that is just that tad too rakish to be considered common …

 

Through the fabric of his livery, Jimmy can feel Barrow’s arm on his back – warmer against his shoulder blade where the man’s bare forearm is resting – can feel the grasp of those long fingers around his shoulder and the way that thumb is pressed into the tendons of his nape, into the exact spot that could really use some loosening up, into the muscles that have been knotting up for what feels like weeks, years even … a lifetime …

 

Jimmy almost jumps at Mrs Patmore’s loud voice cutting through the low chatter around them.

 

“Oi! What is this? Stop cuddling the footmen, Mr Barrow!” the cook exclaims with a screeching laugh. “I need them to chop some ice for the oyster trays.”

 

And just like that, the underbutler releases his hold on Jimmy’s shoulder, stepping away.

 

It’s as if someone has suddenly changed the needle on a gramophone to turn up the volume in the downstairs corridor. Because, all of a sudden, Jimmy can hear it all again, loud and clear, the voices, the laughter, the excited chatter filling the air. It’s almost as if Barrow’s hand had muted all the sounds around them for as long as it had stayed firmly clasped around Jimmy’s shoulder, as if the strong press of the man’s finger pads into Jimmy’s muscles and bones had held down an invisible button, creating a sound-proof bubble around the two of them. It’s only now that Jimmy has been released from that odd half-awkward, half-affectionate side hug that he finds himself enveloped by the happy din of voices again and that reality unleashes a tidal wave of sound upon him.

 

As the crowd in front of them starts to disperse, with people returning to their respective tasks, Jimmy glances up at Barrow, expecting to detect a trace of annoyance on the other man’s face, of anger or maybe even embarrassment at Mrs Patmore’s blunt remark.

 

To Jimmy’s surprise, however, there’s just an amused glint in the underbutler’s eyes as he replies, “Jealous, Mrs Patmore?” in a teasing undertone.

 

The cook just lets out another raucous laugh, that echoes in the emptying hallway.

 

“Ha! You think I’d be interested in _this_ scrawny lad?” (She actually gives Jimmy a little slap with her dirty tea towel for emphasis.) “Nah, you can keep this one all to yourself, Mr Barrow,” she says, scrunching up her round, reddened face as if she’s just smelled something rotten in the larder.

 

Jimmy whips his head around to look at Barrow again, fully expecting the other man to be irritated and embarrassed _now_.

 

But apparently, the dynamics between the cook and the underbutler are distinctly different from the difficult and tense relationship Jimmy has with the man. There’s something between the two older staff members that suggests a casual complicity, a silent understanding of sorts. At least, the woman’s apparently allowed to tease Barrow in ways that Jimmy would never dare try. There’s … something like a spark between them, and Jimmy instantly wishes he could share something so uncomplicated and comfortingly banal with Barrow.

 

“ _Much_ obliged, Mrs Patmore,” the underbutler murmurs with a cat-like grin and an over-the-top bow and scrape. “How shall I ever repay you? … Should I keep a look out for a suitable gentleman when I–”

 

“You can repay me by ordering your _favourite_ footman to follow Alfred and get back to work already,” the cook cuts him off in that shrill voice of hers, her little eyes twinkling at both of them. “He’ll follow your orders, won’t he? Now that he’s _all yours_ , I mean.”

 

Jimmy barely manages to keep his jaw from dropping. They’re poking fun at _his_ expense! And over the past few minutes, Mrs Patmore has apparently somehow handed him over to Barrow like a toy or pet. He opens his mouth to protest. “But I–”

 

“James, go and help Alfred,” Barrow interrupts him. “Mrs Patmore and I have got some tea drinking to catch up on.”

 

When Jimmy turns the corner, he can make out Mrs Patmore’s heavily accented voice once again. “I really don’t know what Ivy sees in him,” she tut-tuts.

 

“Neither do I,” Barrow replies, his accent far closer to hers now than to his usually smoothed out and carefully controlled intonation. “He’s absolutely useless, isn’t he?”

 

Despite the jibe, Jimmy can hear the smile in the man’s voice, and when he glances over his shoulder one last time, there’s something gentle in Barrow’s eyes.

  
It’s a look that follows Jimmy like a grey bird silently flying out into the rain.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick reminder that this is set post series 3. Nothing that happened after the 2012 CS has even the slightest bearing on this story.

Once the initial feelings of relief at their workmate not getting sacked have begun to sink in, the staff members’ reactions to Jimmy’s being a father turn out to be more mixed, Jimmy notices.

 

The sweetest and probably most unexpected reaction comes from Mrs Hughes, who, until recently, hasn't exactly always had the warmest glances in store for Jimmy.

 

(Not that he’s got a bloody clue why that is. Something to do with the way her motherly face takes on that expression of gentle sternness whenever she orders Barrow to turn in for the night, probably. With the fond tone of voice she employs whenever she tells the underbutler not run himself into the ground, addressing the grown man in much the same manner Mrs Petersen would Eddie. Although how exactly Jimmy factors into Mrs Hughes’s feelings of protectiveness for Barrow and why she sometimes sends icy glares in Jimmy’s direction when she discovers him sitting next to the underbutler in the servants’ hall he has yet to work out.)

 

But whatever misgivings the housekeeper may have had about him, she now seems to be warming to him, which might have something to do with her finding out about his being a lone father. In any case, it’s not too long after his conversation with Mr Carson that Jimmy finds himself cornered by her in the downstairs hallway.

 

“You know, James, I was just thinking …” She gives an uncertain little cough, tilting her marcelled head to one side in that way she is wont to do. “I used to knit quite a lot for the Queen’s Needlework Guild during the war. I really loved knitting. And I thought about, erm, maybe, taking it up again.”

 

“Er … Y-yes, Mrs Hughes? … That was very patriotic of you to support the war effort like that. But … but what has that got to do with me?”

 

Her eyes keep shifting to the floor as she bites her lower lip in a self-conscious little smile, and Jimmy suddenly recognises it as the peace offering that it obviously is.

 

“I mean, for the little one,” she clarifies in her funny Scottish singsong. “Is there anything he needs? A jumper? Or a warm pair of mittens, maybe? Connected by a string? Anyway, how old is young … er …?”

 

“Edward,” Jimmy offers quickly, swallowing nervously. “Eddie … And four. He’s four.”

 

“My! Who would have guessed you had a child that age, James. I’m sure there’s a lot of responsibility resting on your young shoulders.”

 

Jimmy just shuffles his feet in response, unsure how to react to this sudden friendliness.

 

In the end, they agree that he will ask Mrs Petersen to take Eddie’s measurements, and Mrs Hughes seems satisfied with that answer.

 

But before she disappears down the corridor, ancient metal keys clanging loudly on her belt, she suddenly turns around one last time and, in that same haltingly cautious voice, enquires, “So, did Tho– Did Mr Barrow know about … about _this_?”

 

“Yes,” Jimmy chokes out, watching the cogs turn in her head. “Mr Barrow … Mr Barrow helped,” he splutters. Where does he even begin to tell her _how much_ Barrow has done for them ever since he found out about Eddie? “He helped … _so_ much, Mrs Hughes.”

 

“Well, God bless him,” the housekeeper says calmly.

 

And Jimmy nods. “Indeed.”

 

And it’s probably this reply more than anything else that seals the truce for Mrs Hughes, he realises, watching as the smile she is giving him grows genuinely warm.

 

Other reactions are far less favourable.

 

Mr Bates, for example, has apparently decided to just flat-out ignore Jimmy and never say a word on the matter. Though, if Jimmy looks at the valet more closely, there seems to be a dash of hostility flashing in the man’s squinty hooded eyes.

 

It actually takes Jimmy a while to work out the reason for this odd behaviour, and it’s only when he sees Anna place a comforting hand on her husband’s forearm and overhears her whisper something to him in the doorway that it suddenly hits Jimmy. _‘Of course …’_

 

“We’ve got to be patient,” he hears her whisper.

 

Her next few words are too low for him to make out, but she’s saying something about ‘God’ and ‘mysterious ways’ and ‘trust’ and ‘a blessing’. And then she adds with an almost mischievous little wink, “And we should keep trying … _Mr Bates_.”

 

It takes all of Jimmy’s willpower not to interrupt them at that moment and scoff, _‘Well, look who's envious like a dog without a bone! If it isn’t Saint Bates, the Ever-Noble! … Stop envying me, you fool. You think I chose this? You think this is some sort of achievement on my part? Because it isn’t! It isn’t, for a man. It’s not like I’ve worked for it really hard or anything. It just happened. It’s not an accomplishment. I haven’t done anything to deserve anyone’s envy.’_

 

Downton’s maids, for their part, seem to believe Jimmy is deserving of something else entirely: their compassion. Once they’ve all found out about his son, it starts as if on cue: they all begin to act much more friendly towards him, all of a sudden. As if his status of ‘father’ had somehow elevated him to the pedestal of ‘better, more decent human being’.

 

Well, they all probably gossip about him behind his back, Jimmy reasons. But to his face, they’re all just nice and curious, and for a few days, he can’t seem to escape their sympathetic smiles and cringe-worthy friendliness and compassion. It makes him want to jump out of his skin and scream at them at the top of his lungs.

 

Oh, how he hates pity! It's so humiliating to look into the eyes of someone who pities you. It's as if suddenly all of your weaknesses and gaping wounds are bared to the world. And he _hates_ that!

 

What he hates even more is their sudden, oh-so-casual interest in him.

 

Why, oh, why is he _more_ interesting to them now? You’d think he'd be _less_ interesting, seeing as he has to take care of a little boy – another woman’s child, no less.

 

Sometimes he almost thinks that he really, _really_ doesn't understand women. At all.

 

But then, Daisy quickly dismisses the idea that any of this has anything to do with women, claiming that people are just different.

 

“Is this about Madge and Alice?” she asks, scrunching up her little button nose as a strand of hair falls into her face. “Oh, come on, Jimmy. Don’t take tha’ so seriously. They’re just silly geese.”

 

She gives a sudden, dismissive snort, head tilted, cutting her eyes sideways. Then, since she hasn’t got her hands free, she blows the strand of hair away from her sweaty forehead, her fingers kneading a large batch of dough, flour covering her arms up to the elbows.

 

Jimmy backs up towards the old cast-iron cooker, feeling its glorious heat seep into his back and warm the back of his thigh muscles. He nods and says with a derisive sneer. “You’re right. Some girls just really aren’t the full shilling.”

 

“Tha’ goes double for some men,” Daisy mutters ominously under her breath.

 

“What exactly do you mean by _that_?” Jimmy exclaims, then quickly tears his burnt hand away from the cooker where his knuckles have accidentally brushed against a hot hob. “ _Ouch!_ ”

 

Daisy just gives another snort, but before she can elaborate any further, Mrs Patmore suddenly appears on the doorstep. “What are _you_ doin’ ‘ere?”

 

She is glaring at Jimmy almost threateningly, fists planted on her matronly hips. “Can’t I leave my kitchen for five minutes without you starting to sniff around the girls and getting them into trouble?”

 

Daisy snorts again, this time louder. “No’ every girl is interested in being ‘got’ into trouble by him, Mrs Patmore!”

 

“Ooh, Daisy’s not a member of this newly-formed Jimmy Kent admiration society, I surmise,” the old cook teases, eyes twinkling.

 

Daisy just harrumphs. “We’ve just agreed – Jimmy and I – that you’ve got to be a bit soft in the ‘ead to be eligible for membership,” she replies slyly, letting her eyes flit to the empty spot where Ivy usually stands, before slamming her little fist into the dough in front of her.

 

“What?! I– I didn’t say that …” Jimmy splutters. “That was not what I meant when I said the girls were stupi– … I mean …” For a moment, he is at a loss for words, then he manages to stammer. “I mean … I’ve … I’ve just come here to warm up a bit by the cooker.”

 

“ _And_ to whinge about his girl troubles,” Daisy tells on him with an unapologetic grin.

 

Jimmy feels his face quickly turn the same colour as the carrots lying on the wooden kitchen worktop. “That’s not true, Mrs Patmore. I’m just here to–”

 

“… hide from Ivy, of course,” Daisy exclaims, slapping her forehead with a flour-covered hand as if to chide herself for only remembering this now.

 

“What? In the kitchens?” Mrs Patmore frowns. “Where is that girl, anyway? She was meant to be working, not gallivantin’ about in the hallways.”

 

Daisy blows away another stubborn strand of hair that has worked its way out from under her white cap. “ _Ivy_ is looking for Jimmy. She thinks he’ll be anywhere _but_ the kitchens. You’ve got to admit it’s genius to be hiding in ‘ere.”

 

“Well, I wouldn’t call this one here a genius,” Mrs Patmore mutters, shaking her round head at Jimmy. Then she quickly turns to leave the kitchen again. “I’ll find that girl if I have to drag her over here by the ear.”

 

After the cook has left, it all goes quiet for a few moments, the sour smell of yeast filling Jimmy’s nose as Daisy keeps kneading the raw dough in front of her, folding it, turning it and slapping it onto the wooden worktop over and over again. The only sounds that can be heard are the metallic clicking of the cooker continuing to heat up and the erratic rhythm of stray raindrops being flung against the window pane by the gusts of wind outside.

 

Jimmy brings his hand up to his eyes to inspect the tiny burn on his finger, then sucks on the knuckle and blows on the wet patch of skin. It doesn’t look too bad. He’ll probably have forgotten about it in an hour.

 

It is the assistant cook who chooses to interrupt the silence then. She clears her throat and says in a less teasing, more sincere tone of voice, “If you want to avoid Ivy, you should probably slip out now.”

 

“Just another minute,” Jimmy sighs, closing his eyes. It’s so nice and warm in here, so calm and peaceful.

 

“I know I’ve said this before,” Daisy’s soft voice interrupts his moment of quiet contemplation, “but I’m very sorry for your loss, Jimmy.”

 

She gives him a sad sidelong glance devoid of any pity and nods to herself in an oddly knowing way.

 

“Thank you … erm …”

 

“You don’t ‘ave to say anything,” she says, eyes fixed on the dough she is kneading, the ring on her finger catching the light where it peeks out from under the thick layer of flour. “I know how tiring it can be to have to come up with a new response each time somebody offers their condolences. You don't need to feel guilty if you just want people to stop. It’s always ‘ard to lose a spouse … no matter wha’ your feelings for them might’ve been …”

 

This hits a bit too close to home for Jimmy’s liking, and he just gulps silently, unable to come up with a response as a new wave of guilt washes over him.

 

He should be thinking of _her_. He should be grieving her. She was Eddie’s mother, for Christ's sake! Not some faceless, voiceless spectre there to silently haunt him for his lack of mourning.

 

Why is there this hollow feeling, this blind spot, this numb void where his grief should be? Why is there a blank, tearless emptiness where one would expect a gaping wound?

 

These days, he is so preoccupied with worrying about the future that – no matter how hard he tries to force himself – he just cannot bring himself to feel a thing when he thinks of Eddie’s late mother. ( _If_ he does at all, that is. Because if he’s honest with himself, his mind has been in a whirlwind lately, with sorrows following him like a furious swarm of bees, flitting about in his brain and never leaving him alone, a cloud of ever-present worries and concerns swirling about in his head, mixed, for some reason, with the blurred images of Barrow’s long legs hurrying along some unknown corridor, black coat-tails all awhirl.)

 

He rubs the back of his hand across his forehead in distress.

 

“Now I’ve made you sad,” Daisy observes with a quiet frown. “Maybe I should go back to mocking you. Better you’re annoyed than sad.”

 

But before Jimmy can scowl and hiss at her for being so beastly, Mrs Patmore walks in again, a loudly protesting Ivy in tow. “I wasn’t skiving off work, Mrs Patmore. I was just– Oh, hello, Jimmy!”

 

At that, Ivy’s cheeks flush with a healthy glow, outshining, for a moment, the gleaming rows of polished copper pots and pans in the kitchen.

 

Jimmy is about to respond by muttering something about how he should probably get back to his own work when, in a tone that doesn’t tolerate any objections, Mrs Patmore exclaims, “Where do you think _you’re_ going?! You can stay _right_ where you are, young man. Luncheon should be ready to be carried upstairs any minute … Daisy?”

 

“They’re ‘avin’ cold meats today,” Daisy replies quickly, awkwardly wiping her forehead with her sleeve-covered upper arm. “The smoked grouse slices. The only thing that’s not ready yet are the poached quail eggs for the asparagus salad,” she adds, glaring, in turn, at Ivy.

 

The scullery maid, for her part, just mutters, “I’m on it; I’m on it,” rolling her eyes.

 

 _‘Asparagus? In February? Some people can just get whatever they want, whenever they want it,’_ Jimmy thinks, shaking his head to himself in irritation.

 

He watches the girls work and needle each other for a few moments, still hoping to escape the questioning that Ivy undoubtedly has in store for him. Where is Alfred when you need him? The one time you’d actually _want_ to witness his clumsy attempts at charming (and consequently distracting) the girl, the giant oaf is nowhere to be found. It’s so annoying.

 

“You’ve got flour _there_ , Daisy,” Ivy whispers, indicating her forehead. Apparently, she is trying to be helpful, which doesn’t seem to impress Daisy very much.

 

Mrs Patmore, for her part, seems even less amused.

 

“You’d ‘ave flour on your face too,” she grunts, “if you’d chosen to work instead of lazin’ about, powdering your cheeks all day long. Chop, chop, missy. Get to work. Your face should be smudged with flour by now – or better still: with pistou. I don’t exactly see any egg poachin’ in progress over there.”

 

“I’m working; I’m working,” Ivy mutters in response, fussing over the garlic.

 

Jimmy breathes a secret sigh of relief where he is still standing in the middle of the kitchen. As long as Ivy is getting scolded, he is safe, for she won’t turn her attention to him while she is under the scrutinising eye of the head cook. So, if he’s lucky, he will get out of this without having more stupid questions about his private business levelled at him.

 

Unfortunately, as soon as Mrs Patmore’s back is turned, Ivy’s eyes are back on him again, though.

 

She seems to think she is being subtle, but, of course, she is wrong. Nothing, absolutely nothing in this kitchen, goes unnoticed by its empress: despite the fact that Mrs Patmore is currently retrieving the silver cloches for the trays Jimmy will soon have to carry upstairs, she seems to have eyes in the back of her head, and Ivy instantly gets reprimanded even though Mrs Patmore still has her back turned to them. “If you stare at him any ‘arder, Ivy, your eyes are going to pop out and get poached right alongside the eggs.”

 

“I’m not staring, Mrs Patmore,” the maid splutters, her wide blue eyes still fixed on Jimmy, nonetheless.

 

Somewhere in the background, Daisy gives a short, disbelieving snort.

 

“The two of them really deserve each other, don’t they?” Mrs Patmore mouths in Daisy’s general direction, indicating him and Ivy. “The bird that laid those eggs is probably cleverer than both of them combined.”

 

It takes all of Jimmy’s willpower not to react to the taunt.

 

Between the women who’ve been relentlessly mocking and teasing him all day long, wounding his masculine pride, and the ones who’ve been incessantly following him around, sticking their noses into his private business and obliquely propositioning him by offering their shoulders for him to cry on while batting their eyelashes at him, Jimmy is about to lose it.

 

He’s short-tempered as it is, and there is only so often he can bite his lip and pretend to be deaf-mute.

 

He rubs the back of his neck, then forcefully pulls on his white gloves, almost ripping them in the process, and starts pacing back and forth in the kitchen. If only the food were ready to be served. If only he could just leave already. If only Alfred would turn up … Jimmy pulls his gloves off again, thoughtlessly – then balls them up in his fist.

 

As wound up as he is at this point, he really doesn’t need any more of this rubbish. Why can’t all these women just leave him alone?

 

“So … is it really true, Jimmy?” Ivy’s carefree and seemingly oblivious voice cuts through the tense silence.

 

 _‘Here we go!’_ Jimmy thinks, taking a deep breath. “Is _what_ true?”

 

And, of course, what she asks next is the unavoidable question, unbearably compassionate smile on her face. “What everyone’s talkin’ about. Were you really _married_?”

 

It's this question that pushes him over the edge.

 

“No, that child was brought to me by a stork!” he snaps at the maid, angry sarcasm in his voice.

 

“Blimey, now you’ve spoilt all the surprise for Ivy,” Mrs Patmore cackles somewhere in the background.

 

But Jimmy doesn’t even notice the jibe anymore, doesn’t notice Daisy’s stifled laugh or the way Ivy just rolls her eyes at him in exasperation as she wonders how on earth she has managed to incur his wrath … yet again. The only thing he _does_ notice is the way his face has grown hot with irrational anger, vein in his forehead throbbing as if ready to burst. His face has probably turned scarlet by now, so bright red, in fact, that his blond curls must look pale in comparison. (Something he was relentlessly ridiculed for in his childhood. _‘Glow worm,’_ the other pupils at school would call him. And the louder they would call him that, the angrier and more embarrassed he would get, which, in turn, would have the desired effect of making his face turn even redder, thus making the whole thing all the funnier for his bullies.)

 

But it’s not something he can change. His face turns red when he’s angry. And right now, he’s reached his boiling point.

 

 _‘God help me … If the next thing Ivy says is something along the lines of, ‘Your child needs a new mother,’ my head is going to explode!’_ he thinks, seething inwardly, eyes fixed on the kitchen worktop.

 

If he thinks that Mrs Patmore will take his irritation into account and leave him alone, he is sorely mistaken, though. The cook doesn’t seem to care for his attitude, no matter the reasons for his disgruntlement. And she unequivocally makes that known to him not even a minute later.

 

“So, what’s with that glare, Jimmy? Has the food somehow personally offended you?” She glowers at him, wiping her hands on her apron, and Jimmy quickly tears his eyes away from the asparagus he’s inadvertently been staring at.

 

As much as he would like to just huff and puff about ‘empty-headed women’, being rude to Mrs Patmore would probably not go over so well with Mr Carson. And Jimmy knows he’s basically still on probation with him.

 

“I was– I was just wondering about th-the asparagus,” he rasps out, quickly picking up one of the unpeeled stalks that have apparently not gone into the salad. “I mean … spring is not even here yet, and they’re, erm, having asparagus already?” He indicates the vegetable in his hand, absently noting its weight and circumference. “You know, I’d love to be in their shoes every once in a while … Getting seasonal food whenever–”

 

“Didn’t know you were such an asparagus fancier, Jimmy,” Mrs Patmore quips.

 

“Well, no … yes … No, I just meant … Who doesn’t love asparagus? It’s so–”

 

He isn’t even sure what he is meaning to say (the words ‘tasty’ and ‘long’ and ‘stiff’ and ‘sleek’ are all buzzing in his mind), but he doesn’t get to say any of them because at this very moment, Barrow walks in.

 

The underbutler seems to want to address Mrs Patmore when his eyes suddenly fall on the asparagus stem in Jimmy’s hand and his eyebrows hit his hairline.

 

For a moment, the man’s mesmerised gaze seems to linger on Jimmy’s wrist where the French cuff has slipped back and exposed Jimmy’s bare skin, then it travels up to his strong fingers, taking in the way Jimmy’s large hand is wrapped around the stem.

 

Their eyes lock, and for a split second, there doesn't seem to be enough air in the room. Jimmy can feel it in the way his too-dry throat constricts and this thrice-damned starched collar around his neck suddenly seems to shrink by two sizes, throttling him with the authoritative power of tradition. He can see it in the way Barrow’s jet-black eyelashes seem to flutter, nay, tremble nervously as if trying to hold back the hungry silver gaze that would otherwise spill forth, out of his hidden soul, and engulf Jimmy in its hypnotic fire. When Jimmy’s eyes fall to Barrow’s mouth, those perfect lips part ever-so-slightly just as Jimmy slowly moves his fingers up the stem until the broad pad of his thumb is pressed against the rounded, slightly purple spear tip of the stalk.

 

Yes, Barrow’s lips part. With a barely perceptible sound. But Jimmy doesn’t seem to be able to hear anything else right now. And maybe it’s just in his head, but he thinks he hears a clear gasp (or sigh?) – all just because he has just moved his thumb like so …

 

Jimmy doesn’t know why he is enjoying this, but it is an odd, perverse feeling of enjoyment (yes, enjoyment!) that he is getting out of watching Barrow squirm, out of sensing the man’s almost palpable suffering. And he feels something in his stomach twist with pleasure at the idea that he can do this to the other man, that he can make him react just by moving a finger, just by rubbing his thumb over the head of … Oh, God!

 

It’s as if there's a wild beast roaring inside Jimmy’s chest, _‘ I did this! It’s because of me that Barrow has just parted his lips like that. It’s because of me that his eyes are glazing over.’_ And this roaring drowns out everything, even the shame that is usually Jimmy’s loyal companion. It leaves his mind spinning with exhilarating power as his pulse quickens for the few seconds that it all lasts.

 

But then, suddenly, there's a sober voice in the back of his mind that seems to cut through the rushing of blood in his ears. _‘James Kent, you’re not a good person. And what the hell is going on with you, anyway?’_ Jimmy feels himself flinch, and just like that, he drops the asparagus stalk back on the worktop, drops it as if his hand were on fire, drops it as if, along with it, he could drop all the thoughts he’s just had.

 

Looking across the kitchen, he can see Barrow quickly avert his eyes. He doesn’t know if he’s imagining it, but there seems to be a faint blush gracing the man’s sharp cheekbones now.

 

But while Jimmy is still trying to calm his racing heart, the underbutler has already regained his composure and is clearing his throat. “You’ve asked me to find Alfred for you, Mrs Patmore. I’ve located him in … in the men’s quarters.”

 

It’s at this moment that a familiar ginger head appears behind Barrow’s shoulder. And for the first time in what feels like a century, Jimmy is actually thrilled to see the other footman, whose sudden appearance has everyone distracted for a moment while Jimmy tries to snap out of whatever spell he has temporarily been under and get his breathing back under control.

 

“Sorry, Mrs Patmore. I fell asleep in the loo,” Alfred announces cheerfully.

 

“Ugh, Alfred!” Ivy groans. “We didn’t need to know that.”

 

“No, listen, it’s not what you’re thinking–”

 

“Never mind what she’s thinkin’, Alfred,” Mrs Patmore interrupts him resolutely, shoving a tray in his hand. “You and Jimmy have work to do.”

 

Before he eventually gets to leave the kitchen, Jimmy glances over to Daisy one last time. The assistant cook has finished kneading the dough by now and has picked up the stray asparagus stalk he has left on the worktop.

 

He doesn’t know if this one is supposed to go into some soup or something, but the last thing he sees before he exits the room is the way Daisy’s hand, armed with a huge kitchen knife, comes down on a chopping board with a loud whoosh, guillotining the poor asparagus in a matter of seconds. Jimmy feels himself wince inwardly at the sight, and, as he rushes outside, he thinks that, for a moment, he sees Barrow wince too.

 

A few moments later, he is already hurrying up the stairs after Alfred to serve luncheon. Somewhere behind him, Jimmy thinks he can make out Mrs Patmore’s loud voice through the open kitchen door. “So, what’s got Jimmy’s knickers in a twist today? He was practically throwin’ a tantrum in here earlier. Can’t he take a joke anymore?”

 

They’re too far away already for him to hear what the others’ response to that is, but it does nothing to lighten his mood.

 

Suddenly, Alfred pipes up, mid-jog, “So, you know the dripping water tap in the Gents, yes? Funny thing happened earlier: Mr Carson asks me to fix it. And I say yes. And as I’m lying on the floor under the washbasin, with the screwdriver in my hand, trying to work out if–”

 

“You know, Alfred … I think Mrs Patmore’s right,” Jimmy cuts him off tiredly. “We’ve got work to do.”

 

They’re taking the stairs two at a time now, jogging up the old worn-out steps as quickly as they can without tripping and spilling food all over their liveries.

 

Alfred clears his throat again. “So, er, this … this Mrs Petersen of yours–”

 

“… is just someone I hired to look after my son,” Jimmy clarifies.

 

 _‘Of course,’_ he sighs inwardly. How foolish of him to believe he would be left alone the moment he exited the kitchen.

 

“Not some married lady, then? That you’ve somehow managed to secretly woo with your well-hidden charm?”

 

It’s obviously meant as a joke, but Jimmy just shakes his head, gripping the slippery silver tray a bit more firmly in his gloved hands. “No. She’s just some widowed old Dane. Although her family are part-Flemish, I think. Or maybe she lived in Belgium or something? … Well, I don’t remember, really. You have to ask Mr Barrow about that. I think, by now, he might know her better than I do.”

 

“So, Mr Barrow knew about all of this, then?” Alfred enquires, stopping momentarily at the top of the stairs to catch his breath.

 

Jimmy nods.

 

“Well, that explains it.”

 

“Explains what?” Jimmy asks as they rush towards the dining room, their leather soles creaking on the shiny beeswaxed floor.

 

“Why the two of you are so chummy these days, always putting your heads together,” Alfred replies guilelessly.

 

But Jimmy can’t respond to that anymore because, at that moment, they slip past the heavy oak doors of the dining room and enter the territory guarded by Mr Carson’s watchful eye.

 

Later, as they’re hurrying downstairs again to fetch the next trays, Alfred suddenly seems to remember something. “You know, mate … We’ve hardly spoken since your talk with Mr Carson. I … I need to ask you something … Later, I mean, once we’ve turned in for the night.”

 

Jimmy gives a long-suffering sigh. “It’s not like I can stop you.”

 

There’s a short pause.

 

“So, you were _married_ , eh?”

 

Oh, God, please, not that question again.

 

“Yes,” Jimmy says, exhaustion audible in his voice. “Yes, I was married.”

 

“Mate, that’s just so … I don’t know …” Alfred looks flustered, somehow managing to duck his head even as they rush down the stairs again. “It’s … it’s really hard to imagine you as a father.”

 

“I find it hard to imagine too,” Jimmy whispers, half to himself.

 

\---

 

Having served luncheon upstairs, they head downstairs for the staff lunch, and afterwards Jimmy manages to slink off to the courtyard in an unobserved moment.

 

He hasn’t exactly had the best of times at lunch, what with the girls interrogating him about his marriage (and any other potential ‘attachments’ he may have formed since) in ways that make the Inquisition and the Marian Persecutions look like tickle fights – all while staring at him over the coleslaw, giggling and coyly batting their eyelashes.

 

He really needs a moment to himself.

 

As he steps into the courtyard, Jimmy notices that the rain has stopped now, whilst the wind has picked up quite a bit, ruffling his hair and drying the pavement, yet not blowing stray raindrops into his face anymore like it had in the early morning. The rain-soaked crows that, for weeks, had guarded the courtyard like a ceremonial unit of soldiers have disappeared.

 

And there’s just one lone figure left, whose sleek, elegant appearance and brilliantined black hair are slightly reminiscent of a tall, dark raven, but who is most certainly human, as Jimmy can attest to.

 

It’s Barrow.

 

Cigarette in hand, he is standing in his usual spot, casually leaning against the brick wall across the yard, surrounded by smoke like a debonair devil reposing in his element.

 

For a second, Jimmy hesitates to join the other man. What if Barrow wants to talk about their ‘moment’ back in the kitchen?

 

 _‘Oh, but, no, no, no, Barrow would never bring that up,’_ Jimmy reassures himself. _‘That would require him to broach the subject of his … inclinations. And he never talks about … that.’_

 

Besides, even if the man mentioned that minor incident earlier in the kitchen, Jimmy would still deny that it had meant anything at all. Because it hadn’t, right? _Right?_

 

Barrow had walked in on Jimmy making a point about liking asparagus. Nothing indecent about that. Just innocent fun.

 

And if he’s really honest with himself, he _wants_ to spend time with Barrow right now. He’s had an awful day, with women either bullying or stalking him for hours; the little burn on his hand has suddenly started to itch and prick, and there's a tiny piece of carrot stuck most uncomfortably between his teeth, right between two of his back upper molars, where it's so hard to reach.

 

In short, the universe has wronged him today, and he has deserved, yes, _deserved_ to enjoy a few quiet moments with Barrow in return for his suffering, to breathe some fresh air and clear his head, to inhale the masculine scent of cigarettes and cologne and shut down his constantly buzzing brain for a few minutes. He always feels that the underbutler’s presence calms him down, that he can unwind with him in a way that he can’t with anybody else. So, yes, if there’s anyone Jimmy wants to see right now, it’s this oddly unique and uniquely odd man over there.

 

With these thoughts, Jimmy quickly crosses the windswept courtyard and walks up to Barrow with a curt nod by way of greeting, taking shelter from the stiff breeze in the lee of the wall, next to the man.

 

As Jimmy’s shoulder blades connect with the cold bricks behind him, he thinks he can see a small, barely visible smile form on Barrow’s lips. “Has your harem exhausted you?”

 

“Not funny,” Jimmy grumbles half-heartedly.

 

But when Barrow gives a low snigger at that, Jimmy can’t even bring himself to scold the man for it.

 

As angry as he’s been with everyone all day long, he just can’t seem to summon the energy to be cross with Barrow, as well. And it’s not just that he’s too exhausted to throw another fit right now; no, it’s almost as if he’s learnt, over these last few weeks, to take jokes less seriously when they come out of the underbutler’s mouth. As if he’s become more forgiving of the man than he is of other people, which means a lot for someone with Jimmy’s quick temper and low tolerance for frustration.

 

In any case, Jimmy simply can’t bring himself to go berserk again; he can barely manage grumpy at the moment. “It’s not funny. They’ve been pestering me all day.”

 

Barrow raises one eyebrow. “Dear me. The fairer sex is mistreating our Mr Kent,” he says, a fine irony in his voice.

 

“Well, the _fairer_ sex has got a very ugly side,” Jimmy chunters.

 

“That goes double for men.”

 

And _that_ sentence hits Jimmy like a bullet, churning up repressed memories, regrets and feelings of guilt.

 

Because, yes, of course, Barrow is right! The two people who treated Barrow the worst were him and Alfred. Two _men_. Hurling abuse at him for months and eventually even reporting him to the police, which almost resulted in his going to gaol. Barrow, in turn, proved to be a better Christian than them (them, who had made themselves the self-appointed defenders of morality!) by repaying evil with kindness. By saving Jimmy from a gang of ruffians, by being his loyal friend and confidant, and by supporting him and his son.

 

And how has Jimmy repaid him now? By turning up his nose at him earlier in the kitchen today.

 

It was just a meaningless moment of insanity, of course, but Barrow must think that Jimmy was winding him up.

 

 _‘Yes,’_ Jimmy realises, gulping uncomfortably. Men can get very ugly, indeed. And Jimmy is a man. And the logical conclusion of these two premises gives Jimmy a chill and a heavy feeling in his stomach, as if he’d swallowed a lump of lead. Hell, he probably would swallow one right now if he could somehow magically turn back the clock and undo the asparagus incident.

 

The strong gusts of wind are playing with a torn newspaper page – from where Jimmy is standing, he can just about see that it’s the front page of an old issue of _The Thirsk and District News_ – that has probably been used as wrapping paper for one of their grocery deliveries and accidentally been dropped by someone in the process. Sudden blasts of air are lifting it off the ground and pushing it against the stack of wooden crates in the corner, rhythmically slapping it against their horizontal slats. Over … and over … and over again. And for a second, Jimmy feels a strong urge to run up to those crates and forcefully bang his head against them, in time with the paper, guilt and regret over his own idiocy making him want to kick himself.

 

There’s a stinging in his eyes (and not just from the wind!) as he looks over to Barrow again … only to discover that the man doesn’t look upset at all. Actually, he looks remarkably unruffled and just as serene as before. For one, he’s still smiling that same subtle smile from earlier.

 

And that’s when Jimmy sees his mistake: Barrow wasn’t hinting at his and Alfred’s past misdeeds; he wasn’t blaming Jimmy for anything. That wasn’t an accusation at all. The man’s probably not even thinking about any of this right now.

 

It was just a general remark. Just Barrow being his usual self and disagreeing with Jimmy, like when Jimmy had once argued that women’s suffrage was taking things a bit too far and Barrow had contradicted him – probably just on principle, as he is wont to do, that old newspaper-devouring know-it-all.

 

Barrow is a born contrarian, someone who doesn’t like going with the herd. It’s in his nature to disagree. And his remark about men having an ugly side too wasn’t directed at Jimmy at all!

 

It’s Jimmy who has completely misunderstood things, his guilty conscience all too ready to jump to conclusions. And coming to think of it … the words, _‘That goes double for men,’_ do ring a bell … erm … As if he’s already heard them somewhere today … Oh! Of course.

 

“Do you ever talk to Daisy?” Jimmy asks suspiciously, trying to gloss over his earlier inner turmoil.

 

“Never!” Barrow replies, eyes twinkling as if to convey that this can mean anything between, _‘Occasionally,’_ and _‘All the bloody time,’_ but that it certainly doesn’t translate as, _‘Never.’_

 

Then the man casually extinguishes his cigarette and adds, out of the corner of his mouth, “Oh, by the way, is it true that your son was brought to you by a stork?”

 

Jimmy groans – loudly – watching the underbutler chuckle to himself gleefully and bury his hands in his coat pockets.

 

“Daisy should be grateful that I have a rule against slapping girls,” Jimmy mutters mock-defiantly.

 

To his surprise, Barrow doesn’t look shocked at the suggestion and just gives a loud snort instead. “I’d love to see you try. Sixpence says she’s faster than you. I’d even wager she’d manage to break your jaw.”

 

The image of Daisy’s fist forcefully hitting that dough earlier in the kitchen flashes in front of Jimmy’s eyes, and he suddenly feels that there might be some truth in that.

 

What’s even funnier, though, is that, when he peers at Barrow again, the usually oh-so-smooth, oh-so-poised Julio Desnoyers look-alike next to him has transformed into someone much younger and more insecure looking. The man is even ducking his head a bit, shoulders raised almost sheepishly, probably unaware of his own posture, both hands buried in his coat pockets, eyes cast down as if slightly embarrassed … He’s still smiling, reminiscing most likely. And yet there’s a hint of embarrassment twitching nervously at the corner of his mouth.

 

Actually, it almost looks as if the man’s subconsciously trying to hide one of his cheeks behind his raised, coat-clad shoulder.

 

And that’s when Jimmy suddenly knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that, at some point, Barrow’s pale cheek must have made contact with Daisy’s hand. And in a rather painful manner, at that.

 

For a split second, the man even seems to wince slightly, as if a shadow of that slap has remained ghosting over his cheek long after the hand itself was gone, as if his skin has retained an invisible imprint of that small, yet surprisingly forceful palm.

 

Barrow is probably doing it unwittingly, reacting to a painful memory, and Jimmy is certain he isn’t even supposed to see this. But it’s fascinating and amusing, nonetheless:

 

The great schemer, the genius manipulator, the grandmaster of connivery and artful plotting, has, at some point, got cuffed around the ear so badly that his cheek has retained a ‘phantom’ memory of that momentous event.

 

Jimmy barely manages to contain a snigger at the notion, the image of the tall underbutler (scowling like a grumpy, yet guilty puppy, hand pressed to his cheek) and the petite assistant cook (up on her toes, face furious, palm still raised in the air) burning itself into his brain like the sight of a huge hand-painted film placard announcing a new comedy picture.

 

He cannot for the life of him imagine what it was that got Barrow smacked by the girl, but smacked he got, and quite soundly too; that much seems clear. What’s even more confusing is the question of how the two of them went from _that_ to enjoying each other’s company and talking to each other anywhere between ‘occasionally’ and ‘all the bloody time’. What Jimmy is sure of, though, is that there has to be some invisible connection between the two things: between the slap and the unlikely friendship. He just isn’t sure what it is and how you go from hitting someone to casually befriending or, at least, tolerating them.

 

“Women!” Jimmy sighs out loud, shaking his head. “It’s impossible to understand them.”

 

At that, Barrow straightens up, searching his pockets for his cigarette pack, twinkle in his eyes.

 

“Well, I find not treating them as a different species goes a long way,” he deadpans around a new, still unlit cigarette, fumbling with his lighter as the wind keeps extinguishing the flame. “They have got this thing where they really like to be treated as the human beings that they are. Just like men, for that matter.”

 

Jimmy almost, almost blurts out, _‘Well, that’s easy for you to say!’_ at that. Thankfully, his brain catches up with his mouth for once and he manages to bite his tongue in time. No need to point out that Barrow hasn’t got the faintest idea what he’s talking about. _‘Of course, it’s easy for you, you daft sod! You can look at women all rationally and treat them like your gran. A courteous, yet reserved gentleman. ‘Cause you don’t feel a thing for them.’_ But Jimmy doesn’t say that either. The less said about Barrow’s impure propensities the better.

 

Instead, he just grumbles something along the lines of, “Oh, they’re all just stupid!” trying to coif his windswept curls back into place.

 

When he peers back at Barrow, Jimmy realises that the man is watching him; there seems to be  an almost amused look in the underbutler’s eyes, and even though his broad coat-clad shoulders aren’t exactly shaking with laughter and there’s no obvious smile forming on his lips, it is clear that he is silently laughing at Jimmy. It is clear from the tiny roguish sparks dancing in the man’s eyes. It is clear from the mischievous arch of his sharp brow. And it is especially clear from the quizzical way in which he tucks his chin ever-so-slightly down towards his chest.

 

(It’s almost as if the underbutler has learnt, over the course of his eventful life, to laugh only with his eyes and refrain from otherwise moving a muscle, the degree to which he has apparently mastered his own emotions being both impressive and uncommon. Something Jimmy can’t hope to achieve any time soon – neither on the high nor on the low end of the emotional spectrum.)

 

But there's more than just those sparkling fireworks of amusement in Barrow’s eyes now. There is an uncharacteristic warmth in them that lights up the man’s entire face, softening his angular features.

 

Yes, he is laughing at Jimmy, obviously finding his complaints about the female half of humanity rather silly. And yet the man’s black eyelashes seem to flutter for a split second, as if trying to get something into sharp focus, something inside of Jimmy, right under his skin, something quite invisible, yet apparently surprisingly loveable.

 

And then, suddenly, there it is: that little dimple that Jimmy likes so much appears in Barrow’s cheek just as his greyish blue eyes send Jimmy a fond glance that seems to say, _‘Why, James! Aren’t you just the most endearing chap when enraged?!’_

 

With anyone else, Jimmy would have probably lashed out and howled with frustration right about now. Not with Barrow, though. How does the man even manage to be disdainful, amused and lenient at the same time?

 

Jimmy feels a disorienting surge of embarrassment and warmth course through his veins. “You’re laughing at me, aren’t you? … It’s almost as if you don’t take my plight seriously, Mr Barrow,” he sniffs.

 

The look of fond indulgence that flashes across Barrow’s face at that is a testament to the fact that the underbutler isn’t cross with him, despite disagreeing with some of the views Jimmy has just expressed. At least, that's how Jimmy interprets Barrow’s gaze as the man looks down at him from his greater height. There is a softness in those usually so guarded eyes that Jimmy would love to see more often, a fondness in that private smile that the reserved and solitary man doesn't seem to have for anyone else. It’s as if he’s reprimanding, mocking and forgiving Jimmy – all at the same time.

 

“I see,” Jimmy mutters, mock-pouting. “You think I’m being melodramatic, don’t you?” He tries for an accusing glare, but fails utterly – probably because glaring is hard when the one doing the glaring is shorter and more fidgety than the one who’s being glared at, but stubbornly refuses to look intimidated, sucking on his cigarette instead, amused, toothy smile widening more and more with each passing second.

 

“You think I’m being petty and making a song and dance about nothing,” Jimmy insists. “That I'm in a strop like some spoilt, whingeing child. _Don’t you?_ ”

 

It’s a question, and yet Jimmy notices that, merely by posing it, he is already implying the answer, realising, with sudden clarity and a sickening feeling of dread and self-loathing, that, yes, there’s probably some truth in what he’s just said there. It’s an unsettling truth, one that he doesn’t like to acknowledge, but there’s no changing the fact that he suddenly feels caught out and embarrassed.

 

Barrow, for his part, just exhales a slow pensive stream of smoke, apparently considering Jimmy’s words for a moment, one corner of his mouth curling up in a quizzical smile.

 

“Tut-tut,” he then clicks his tongue in mock disapproval. “I would _never_ say anything of the kind,” he assures Jimmy with faux seriousness, his eyes two narrowed black slits, ironic twist to his mouth as he takes another long drag from his cigarette.

 

“Yes, but you’re _thinking_ it,” Jimmy grouses unhappily.

 

“ _And?_ Where have I gone wrong in my assessment?”

 

“But … But I …” Jimmy wipes the back of his hand across his face in distress.

 

How do you defend your honour when you know, deep down, that the other party is largely in the right and you're in the wrong? Because it _is_ true: Jimmy is so unhinged with nervous exhaustion that he is about to snap. It’s interesting, actually, that he’s coming apart _now_. Now that all has been resolved, now that everyone knows about his child, now that Carson has allowed him to stay on. It’s as if the tension that has built up over time as a result of his hiding Eddie, of his lying, ducking and covering, as if _that_ tension is being released now. All at once. Like the steam from an overheated boiler that has been under pressure for too long. Like a coiled spring that has been tightly wound for the longest time and is suddenly being released …

 

The harsh wind is biting at his burnt knuckle like a sabretooth. And speaking of teeth: if he doesn’t get that piece of carrot out from between his molars sometime soon, he’s going to go mad. “B-but the girls …” he stammers in distress. “I … Why can’t everyone just leave me alone?!”

 

Barrow makes a move as if to reassuringly clasp Jimmy’s forearm, but seems to think better of it, gloved hand hovering in the air between them.

 

“James, I think it’s all very understandable,” he says, voice more sincere now. “You’re worrying. You’re nervous and under a lot of stress right now. All perfectly understandable, really. But you can’t take that out on the girls in the house. Or on anyone else, for that matter. You can’t blow up in people’s faces just for looking at you in a funny way.”

 

It suddenly occurs to Jimmy, that, even though Barrow is probably saying this as his friend, the man is still first and foremost his superior, that _this_ is Barrow admonishing Jimmy in his capacity as Downton’s underbutler. Which, considering how Jimmy’s made an an ass of himself today, is probably lucky. With Carson, he wouldn’t get off the hook so easily. And Jimmy has seen enough _‘No Men Wanted!’_ signs in his young life to know that he would do virtually anything to avoid becoming unemployed again. So, he should probably be grateful that the girls haven’t reported this to the butler, or Jimmy would be sent packing, seeing as how the old man has got it in for him, anyway.

 

It’s at this moment that Jimmy realises, his brow suddenly sweating despite the cool air whipping through the courtyard, that he should consider himself lucky he’s getting scolded by Barrow and not by Carson or (God forbid!) His Lordship. Barrow is more partial to Jimmy and won’t be too tough on him.

 

“James, if we want this to work out,” Barrow says quietly, making a vague gesture with his gloved hand, “… if we want to pull this off … _if_ we want to get away with moving your son to the old vicarage and keeping you in His Lordship’s employ, we’ve got to go about it in a calm and level-headed way … This is all uncharted territory for Carson and the family; we can’t afford to scare them off. We’ve got to think in terms of strategy and act soberly. We just can’t let ourselves be ruled by emotion.”

 

With Barrow talking tactics, Jimmy can’t help but feel reminded of the way the man used to basically hold his own private ‘strategic meetings’ with the infamous Miss O’Brien, cooking up schemes and hatching plots. (The deadly duo of disdainful disrespect disbanded shortly after Jimmy joined Downton’s staff, but from what little he gleaned of it and from what the others told him, it used to be legendary back in its day.)

 

For a brief moment, Jimmy contemplates the meaning of this: are the two of them the _new_ duo of derision and deceit now? Does that mean that Jimmy has been promoted to Barrow’s new plotting partner? And if he is now the junior partner in this endeavour (the Thomas Barrow of the duo, so to speak), wouldn’t it follow that Mr Barrow is the new Miss O’Brien of their team?

 

It’s a bit odd to imagine, to be sure. The cold-hearted and formidable lady’s maid had seemed nothing like the underbutler, whom Jimmy now knows to be a more vulnerable, more caring man than most people would presume at first glance. But then again, who knows … O’Brien had been mysterious at the best of times. Perhaps, she too had had hidden depths, harbouring sentiments of loyalty and affection alike.

 

“Trust me, James, I know how frustrating it is to have to just grind your teeth and keep quiet when all you want to do is punch a wall … or someone in the face. But if we want to pull this off, we’ll have to bite our tongues for now. We can’t risk to inconvenience Carson.”

 

Jimmy peers over at the underbutler in surprise. Barrow doesn’t seem the sort given to sudden bouts of temper. But then, it’s not like Jimmy knows that much about the other man or his past …

 

The man seems to have frozen where he is standing, eyes fixed on some invisible spot in the distance, cigarette burning down perilously close to his whitened knuckles. And yes, for a second, Jimmy thinks, there’s something there in those stormy grey eyes. A certain untamed fire in the man’s usually cool gaze, the reflection of a rough lout or troubled youth, whose rougher, more aggressive personality seems to shine through the perfectly polished façade of this reserved and mature man in his thirties. As if, where Barrow’s ever-sarcastic mien (discernible by the dismissively raised eyebrows and the ironic slant to his permanently upturned lips) is slipping, there’s a window into the man’s wilder, more reckless past, cracks in the canopy offering Jimmy a glimpse of the fire that hasn’t burnt out yet, but has merely turned into smouldering embers waiting to be stoked back to life.

 

“I had to learn that swallowing your anger and _not_ punching that wall or that other footman can sometimes get you farther in life … as long as you don’t stop pursuing your goals,” Barrow says pensively. “And, God knows I didn’t find it an easy lesson to learn. But I _did_ learn it, in the end.” He extinguishes his cigarette just before it burns him. “Just remember that it’s in our very own interest not to ruffle too many feathers. Patience is a virtue. So, no more outbursts, James. Please?”

 

“I’m sorry,” Jimmy feels himself mumble, stepping from one foot to the other, ears burning from the cold wind. “I’ll … I’ll try to keep my mouth shut the next time Ivy bothers me … or anyone else, really … It just isn’t easy sometimes.”

 

He casts his eyes down to the ground, idly scuffing the patches of withered, brownish moss growing between the cobbles of the courtyard with the toe of his shoe.

 

It’s a sudden quiet laugh that interrupts him and prompts him to lift his head again.

 

“Remarkable,” Barrow says, failing to keep the affection out of his low voice.

 

“What is?”

 

“How much you look like your son right now.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Really,” the man nods. “Edward does that same thing with his foot when he pouts. And he sticks out his bottom lip just like you.”

 

“What, me?” Jimmy sniffs, quickly biting his lower lip to make sure Barrow’s claim becomes invalid … and to hide the smile that is forming on his face, but that’s beside the point. “How would you even know that?”

 

Barrow’s voice turns even softer at that, his gaze growing fonder and more forgiving. “Because the last time I was in York and played chess with Mrs Petersen, Edward wanted to play too.”

 

“So?”

 

“Mrs Petersen told him chess was a game for grown-ups. And, let’s just say, he wasn’t happy with that assessment at all,” Barrow chuckles.

 

“Well, he is his father’s son, I suppose,” Jimmy laughs with a small, guilty wince. “Although he usually never goes from pouting to actually throwing a full-blown tantrum. He’s much more even-tempered than I was at his age, I have to admit.”

 

There’s an overwhelming sense of relief flooding through him, all of a sudden – as if a heavy weight has been lifted off his chest. Across the yard, the wind has finally managed to get hold of the crumpled newspaper page, tearing it away from the old wooden crates and carrying it off into the skies, where it joins the fast-moving stream of clouds like a freed bird escaping into the great unknown and turns into an ever tinier speck of dust until it becomes part of the horizon in a near-transcendental journey towards absolution.

 

At last, Jimmy feels a long, barely audible sigh break from his chest. “It’s just odd, you know,” he breathes quietly, letting his head fall back against the cool brick wall. “I really don’t understand it.”

 

“What?” Barrow asks with a short sidelong glance in Jimmy’s direction, burying his hands in his coat pockets again.

 

“Them. I don’t understand _them_ ,” Jimmy feels himself mutter absently, eyes unfocussed in thought. “ _Women!_ ” he enunciates more clearly then.

 

At that, Barrow just inhales sharply as if to say, _‘Not that again.’_

 

But Jimmy doesn’t let himself be deterred by that. “Why are they even interested in me?” he continues. “I don’t mean Daisy; I mean the other girls. You’d think they would be _less_ inclined to make advances to me. Now that they know that I’ve got a child, I mean. But, as a matter of fact, they’re even _more_ flirtatious now than before. It doesn’t make any sense.”

 

From the corner of his eyes, Jimmy can see that the underbutler quirks one of his eyebrows at that in thinly veiled scepticism.

 

“I mean, who in their right mind would want to fall in love with someone who has already got a child?” Jimmy explains. “I thought the fact that I’ve got a son with another woman would make them back off. Instead, it seems to have made these blasted girls even _more_ eager … I don’t understand it. No man would act like that.”

 

“You think?” Barrow asks back quietly, eyes shifting away before Jimmy can catch his gaze.

 

“No, of course, not!” Jimmy shakes his head vehemently, really getting into his stride now. “ _I_ wouldn’t … Actually, _no_ man would marry a woman who has a child with another man … No, no, no. Men don’t work like that. No man would even _dream_ of falling for somebody who’s got children from a previous marriage. It would mean that he would have to provide for children that aren’t his flesh and blood. And that’s just unnatural.”

 

“Unnatural, eh?” Barrow breathes, squinting his eyes.

 

But Jimmy’s on a roll now. “Of course!” he exclaims. “In nature, the new dominant male kills his predecessor’s offspring when he takes over … Of course, we live in a Christian, civilised country, so we don’t exactly kill our rival’s young. But we certainly avoid giving our heart to the one who’s raising them. We’d never do that. Only women are _that_ sentimental,” he sneers. “Men never make the mistake of falling for someone who’s raising some stranger’s child that they would then have to provide for. Men don’t do that.”

 

“Don’t they?” There is something brittle in Barrow’s quiet, sarcastic tone of voice. Something bitter in his half-smile as he stares into space, seemingly distracted. As if his air of nonchalance were nothing but an artfully crafted, yet fragile papier-mâché mask, there to hide the true Thomas Barrow underneath.

 

For a moment, Jimmy doesn’t know what to say and how anything he _could_ say could possibly have a point; the man’s cryptic remark has rather thrown him off.

 

“But–” He clears his throat and is just about to ask the other man about that remark when the door to the courtyard suddenly swings open on its rusty hinges at someone’s swift kick from the inside, and reveals Mr Wright, the visiting valet.

 

The tall man emerges from the building with about half a dozen valises of all shapes and sizes stacked under his chin. He then proceeds to meander his way across the yard, careful not to upset the shaky balance of this leaning Tower of Pisa he is carrying, and finally sets the cases down, one by one, on a dry spot on the ground, all the way across from them, at the other end of the courtyard.

 

 _‘Of course,’_ Jimmy thinks. _‘It’s the first rainless day in weeks today. He’s airing out the Dullops’ suitcases.’_ A typical job for a valet, that. Opening the valises and airing them out before any long journey, giving the outside leather covering a careful brush-down and making sure that they are all pristinely clean inside and out, with even the last bit of dust or lint removed from the silk lining inside. (Although, to be honest, it’s hard to imagine that _much_ dust could have gathered in those invariably closed and locked suitcases; it’s not as if the Dullops have been here for years – even though it sometimes feels like that to Jimmy.)

 

Having done all that, the valet will probably proceed to either spray the cases’ insides with a bag freshener from a gold-emblazoned Coty flacon or line them with little scented bags: sachets of English lavender for the Lady and vetiver for His Lordship. All to make sure that everything he is going to pack later on, from the bespoke morning coats to the Japanese silk tissue that is used to wrap the shoes, will be infused with a pleasant scent.

 

It’s a ridiculous luxury, really. And Jimmy could probably ask Barrow whether, in his time as a valet, he had ever had to perform the same menial tasks. But as Jimmy watches the dreadful Mr Wright prepare the Dullops’ luggage, there’s a more pressing matter to be addressed:

 

“Does this mean the Dullops are leaving?” he whispers to Barrow, barely able to suppress the hopeful note in his low voice.

 

“Didn’t you know?”

 

“So, there is a God, after all,” Jimmy half sighs, half chuckles quietly.

 

“You don’t like them very much, do you?”

 

Jimmy gives a minute shake of his head, then says out of the corner of his mouth, “No. The Lady is too French. The husband’s too boring. And the valet is too–”

 

 _‘Too poncey,’_ is the word buzzing in Jimmy’s head, but he quickly swats it away like a pesky bee that might sting them both. The next thing that flashes through his mind is, _‘Too interested in you,’_ but thankfully he realises, in time, that that one’s even worse. He really doesn’t want Barrow to misunderstand his intentions. (Intentions? Wait, where has that come from? He hasn’t got any _intentions_. What an absurd notion!) That folly with the asparagus stalk was quite enough madness for one day.

 

At last he comes up with, “–too ostentatious,” instead, and feels an odd sense of pride and achievement at having managed to put into words exactly what he’s been trying to express.

 

Barrow’s amused eyebrow jumps up at that again. “Sometimes I think you’re worse than Carson,” the man whispers back teasingly, apparently having found his sense of humour again.

 

“I will have you know that Mr Carson will be relieved to see the back of them, too,” Jimmy says as quietly as he can. “Just the other day, I heard him indignantly mutter something under his breath, complaining about Wright’s ‘freak American suit’ again. I think ‘Yankee swank’ were the words he used.”

 

Barrow manages to stifle a chuckle at that.

 

“But he can’t exactly come out with it and carpet Wright for his choice of clothes,” Jimmy continues in his subdued voice. “Precisely because it’s not _his_ choice of clothes: the suit was bought by Lord Dullop in America. So, Carson’s got to keep mum on the subject. Anyway … if they’re really leaving soon,” he chuckles quietly, “Carson might be spared that heart attack that’s coming his way each time he tries to suppress his grunts of disapproval.”

 

Jimmy feels an odd sense of excitement all of a sudden, an almost nervous giddiness to be whispering with Barrow as if they were two errant schoolboys at the back of the classroom.

 

“What’s wrong with Wright’s suit?” Barrow enquires in a whisper. “It’s a fashionable enough Drexel.”

 

“Fashionable where? On a golf course?” Jimmy snorts nastily. “Not so much upstairs.” He gives a barely perceptible jerk of his head, indicating the upper floors of the Abbey.

 

“Oh, come on. A racy lounge suit like that?” Barrow breathes, his sparkling eyes back to smiling again. “I’ve been considering having one tailored for myself.”

 

At that, Jimmy inclines his head even closer to the other man, so close that he can smell his cologne, and murmurs, “If you ever put an atrocity like that ‘sack suit’ on your body, I swear I’ll ask Daisy to slap some sense into you. _Again_.”

 

He can see the exact moment when Barrow realises he’s been found out; he sees it in the way the man’s eyes widen in honest surprise, sees it in the way his angular jaw goes slack, sees it in the way his astonished features freeze. It’s as if the underbutler is suddenly thrown off his high horse of intellectual one-upmanship and manipulative superiority, and for a second, Jimmy relishes in the fact that he has managed to stump the other man like that, secretly congratulating himself on his cleverness, struck, surprised and oddly warmed by how young, boyish and embarrassed the underbutler looks all of a sudden.

 

Barrow, for his part, doesn’t ask Jimmy how he knows about the slap, not even denying it. But once the man’s gathered himself, he sniffs with a pretend miffed look, narrowing his eyes and tilting up his chin, his black brows drawn together in that familiar way that’s so _very_ ‘Thomas Barrow’ that Jimmy feels himself smile involuntarily.

 

“You two can’t tell me what clothes to wear,” Barrow sniffs half-jokingly. “Daisy is not my wife. And neither … are you.”

 

Jimmy should be shocked, incensed and embarrassed to hear this quip. But oddly enough, he isn’t; he feels giddy to the point of bursting into laughter. Giddy and happy – yes, almost explosively happy – to be joking with Barrow in this private moment. So happy, in fact, that his whole body seems to be thrumming with excitement and that he momentarily forgets the cold wind that’s yanking at his hair and the burn on his knuckle that’s still stinging like a hundred tiny needles. Even that deuced piece of carrot that remains lodged firmly (and most uncomfortably) between his teeth is forgotten for the moment, for he can’t help the silly happiness bubbling up inside his chest and fizzing warmly through his veins. Yes, the way they’re standing here, secretly grinning at each other like schoolboys who have put a drawing pin on their master’s chair … maybe … maybe they really _are_ the new mischievous duo now. Somehow, Jimmy can’t see anything wrong with that.

 

The Dullops’ valet, for his part, has raised his head at the sound of their hushed voices. For a moment, his big brown eyes behind the wire-rimmed spectacles seem to stray over to where Jimmy and Barrow are standing next to the brick wall; then he gives them a quick, awkward smile and raises one of his large hands in a fleeting gesture of acknowledgement, before averting his eyes again, quick as a flash.

 

Despite being more exposed to the cold wind, though, he doesn’t walk up to where they are standing, sheltered by the tall brick wall. He doesn’t come up to them for a friendly chat like he did the last time; he doesn’t even say hello. Apparently, Barrow’s unorthodox method of deterrence has worked its spell, and the poor valet is too dumbfounded or just plain frightened to approach them again.

 

“Poor bloke,” Jimmy whispers out of the corner of his mouth. “From what I’ve heard, Molesley has been pestering him for days … And we all know what it’s like when Molesley decides he needs to make a new friend,” he chuckles quietly. “The man’s not exactly easy to shake off once he’s set on becoming the puppy that follows you about, licks your toes, wags its tail and pants, ‘Play with me! Play with me!’”

 

Barrow just lets out a quiet snort at the image.

 

But it’s true: Molesley has taken to following Wright about like a besotted (and not very bright) ugly duckling, regaling him with funny anecdotes about the goings-on in the county in general and life as a valet at Downton in particular. It’s really rather obvious why Wright looks more and more browbeaten and confused as the days pass.

 

“He probably thinks he’s ended up in some sort of loony bin here,” Barrow mouths, eyes twinkling.

 

“Well, Molesley isn’t the only one to blame for that, you know,” Jimmy mutters under his breath. “Remember what you told Wright about your chumminess with the heavenly powers? _That_ really took the biscuit.”

 

Barrow’s eyes slide away at that, and he shrugs one of his shoulders with an air of deliberate casualness. “He’ll get over it. He’s from London.”

 

It’s almost, _almost_ an admission on Barrow’s part that there _is_ something to get over, in the first place. That he has, indeed, turned the valet down. That there has been a (however discreet) offer that Barrow has refused. And that, in turn, is almost an admission that the two of them, Wright and Barrow, are of the same kidney.

 

But, of course, Barrow would never say anything of the kind. He doesn’t mention his inauspicious condition nor will he bring this unsavoury topic up just to make a point about Wright being a big boy who’ll undoubtedly ‘survive it’. Instead, the underbutler remains silent, his face the image of carefully crafted disinterest.

 

“Why did you have to be so cruel to him?” Jimmy asks quietly, noting how the mood between them has shifted away from their earlier easy banter and taken a turn for the chilly again.

 

“Oh, he’ll be all right,” Barrow replies coolly. “London is full of … distractions for him to explore.” Which is anything but a clear answer to the question Jimmy has just asked him.

 

It’s almost as if Barrow’s trying to deflect … As if the man’s trying to direct Jimmy’s attention to the images of an insanely wild and gloriously mad metropolis and away from the unkind words he’s said to the hapless, young valet.

 

It doesn’t exactly take a genius to realise that Barrow doesn’t want to talk about the whole thing – least of all with Jimmy. It’s obviously much easier to deflect and change the subject to the types of remedies an exciting city like London with its pulsating nightlife might have to offer anyone suffering from a case of the doldrums.

 

And it works – even if just for a short moment: Jimmy _does_ let his mind wander, almost despite himself, down that treacherous path, his thoughts drifting away from the question he’s just asked the underbutler and to the images of crowded music halls, variety theatres, night clubs and cabarets.

 

How exciting, how thrilling, how brilliant it must be to be able to walk into a different ritzy ballroom and listen to a different ‘hot dance’ orchestra every night of the week. To watch as all those smartly clad chaps attend some knees-up or other and to merge with them into that sea of crisp white shirt fronts and sparkling diamond collar studs, into that blur of shiny pomaded hair, glittering cufflinks and casual, flashing smiles. To hear the girls’ delighted laughter cascading, crystal clear, towards the ceiling, rising above the glorious thumping of the drums. To see feather boas flying through the air, accompanied by the liquid gurgling of the clarinet and the metallic swooshing of the sock cymbal. And all of that while rubbing one’s eyes and trying to blink away what must be a delirious fever dream, unable to make out anything of that dizzying tableau of writhing bodies and gleaming musical instruments, what with the air being so thick with blue smoke and heavy perfume, with stray ostrich and marabou feathers, with flying champagne corks and banknotes being thrown confetti-style at the musicians, with promise and anticipation … All of that while the trumpets blare, and the drums roll, and the banjo player strums up a storm, and the singer scats her tongue into a twist, and the bassist spins his upright on its endpin mid-pluck, and the pianist furiously hammers away at the keys with both his hands _and_ feet, and the trombonist uses a just-emptied wine glass as a mute. All while a mad crowd of dancers bend their bodies into the most fantastical contortions, twisting their legs, swivelling from heel to toe and flapping and flailing their arms, elbows crooked, as though miming a horde of wild monkeys going on a rampage, knocking over tables and bar stools and entire pyramids of stacked champagne glasses … A frenzied crowd of dancers jerking their torsos and shaking their backsides, of men crawling about on their knees and removing women’s fishnet stockings with their teeth, and of girls slapping their heels and doing high kicks that expose their underthings. A crowd that’s being showered with playing cards that come fluttering down from the gallery like colourful butterflies, raining down onto the dance floor alongside the black and white Tahitian pearls torn from around some long white neck upstairs and now falling, like tears, from the skies, that are crying out in ecstasy …

 

Well … erm … it’s either _really_ like that or … or Jimmy has naïvely taken _too_ many of Mr Wright’s fanciful stories at face value.

 

In any case, London must be a hotbed of bustling nightly entertainment, decadence and debauchery, and, when compared to the countryside (and worst of all ‘God’s own county’), offer rather refreshing means of amusement to anyone seeking to escape reality.

 

How dull, how grey, how ordinary life out here in the country is by comparison! How uneventful, how boring, how isolated and quiet. And how inconceivably monotonous.

 

Yes, rural life in this formerly hot boiling pot known as ‘the Land of the White Rose’ is dreary and far from idyllic; it’s tough, even fraught with hardship, and all too often still untouched by this new century (a century that is, after all, already more than two decades old). Time seems to move sluggishly slowly out here, and one can’t help but feel cut off from the rest of the world and, most importantly, from the urban centres of the country.

 

It takes months for the latest fashion to arrive out here … and years before it catches on and people start to really wear it (at which point it won’t exactly be the _latest_ fashion anymore). Any new film will take weeks to come out in Thirsk. And the only places around here where you can buy new records or sheet music are the few music shops in York – the city being a bit livelier than the surrounding countryside – but even there, there’s no guarantee. So unless you want to piss your money away on the ponies and try your luck at the racecourses in Thirsk, Ripon or York (Jimmy has tried them all … without success), there isn’t much by way of entertainment around here … apart from the occasional tone-deaf organ grinder, maybe, who can be observed  on his wanderings from town to town every once in a while, croaking out his uninspired songs to the drowsy tune of his instrument, with even the dishevelled monkey on his shoulder looking wary and defiant, forever on the lookout for some police constable with a loud whistle and a firm hand.

 

Other than that, the only way to amuse yourself around here is to go to some dodgy boozer or other and get properly pissed. If you’re lucky, you might even get a chance to bang out a song or two on some ancient, out-of-tune piano there or make a few new (equally drunk) friends – most likely some pug-ugly, red-faced farmers, sweaty, greasy, flatulent, ever-burping halfwits who will pee in public and sleep off their hangover in the shrubbery outside the pub.

 

And the only girls you’ll be able to get to know around here will be the same dozen or so silly, rosy-cheeked shop assistants and fatuous, round-faced housemaids – the type of girls one would expect to meet on market day in Easingwold or Ripon, where they typically run their errands and fill the high street with their laughter and incessant chattering.

 

It’s all so awfully predictable and boring.

 

How different a vibrant city like London must be from all this, indeed!

 

If Wright’s stories are true, that is.

 

Jimmy half wishes he had never heard any of them. It was probably all made up anyway. Right? Exaggerations, lies and half-truths. Yes.

 

And yet … Jimmy feels that little, nasty, green-eyed maggot worm its way into his heart: How come a peacock like Wright gets to enjoy the good life, whilst Jimmy is doomed to rot away out here for all eternity?

 

Not that Jimmy is envious or anything … oh, no, no, no … That’s just ridiculous. He wouldn’t _dream_ of indulging in the kinds of metropolitan depravities prevalent in these types of clubs. Not at all. Not ever. Not in a million years. He would just … occasionally … fancy a peek – a very brief one – into this strange world, into this thrilling … er, no, no, no … scary, yes, _scary_ modern world. And just for the music, of course. Yes, _that_. The music.

 

No, he’s definitely not jealous. He’s shuddering at the mere idea of what kinds of bohemian eccentricities might be on display in these London establishments. (Yes, that’s definitely a shudder. A full-body shudder.) And anyway, he wouldn’t want to prance about the way Wright does. It’s disgusting; it really is. But still … but still … How come …

 

A sudden loud clanging sound makes Jimmy snap out of his daydream.

 

A large brass buckle on one of the suitcases Wright is currently cleaning has come loose and fallen on the stone-paved ground.

 

Jimmy gives himself a quick little shake and lets his eyes wander over to Barrow.

 

Hang on a minute, the man still hasn’t answered Jimmy’s question!

 

He has deflected it and waited for Jimmy to walk straight into the trap. A clever move. And it has almost worked, too.

 

Jimmy has just spent a full minute staring emptily into space, daydreaming about London with his mouth hanging open, when, actually, he should have been prodding Barrow again to answer the bloody question:

 

Why turn someone down in such a cruel manner? Why play the religious card to get them to back off?

 

Jimmy’s about to open his mouth to repeat that question when his eyes suddenly catch sight of Barrow again, _really_ taking in the way the man is standing there: hands buried in his pockets, head thrown back, staring up at the roiling sky, his bare white neck exposed above the open coat collar. ( _‘Of course it’s bare,’_ Jimmy thinks. _‘He’s given his scarf to Eddie.’_ ) Standing there, looking like a statue, beautiful and sad. Standing there, seemingly lost in thought, back of his head resting against the wall. Standing there, never losing that frown. A frown that is a wall in itself, a powerful, sombre rampart against the outside world, solid and eternal, guarding the real Thomas Barrow.

 

And suddenly, all Jimmy has got to do is take one good look at that man, and, just like that, he knows the answer to his question, knows it as if Barrow had spelt it out for him.

 

It’s all there. In that forlorn look on the man’s pale face, that is somehow made even sadder by that ever-present wry twist to his mouth, by the slight upturn of those lips that nature seems to have cruelly shaped to smile even through the worst pain.

 

It’s all there.

 

And just like that, Jimmy understands that the man is doomed.

 

For if there’s one thing more difficult and dangerous than, ahem, _approaching_ another man (as a man, that is), it surely has to be _getting rid_ of someone approaching you in that manner if you’re just not interested in him.

 

Jimmy almost kicks himself for not working this out sooner. Of course! Why has it taken him so long?

 

Propositioning a man is already dangerous, as it is.

 

Misread one hand gesture, one glance, one simple smile from him, and off you go to gaol. And it’s not just the imprisonment; it would mean complete and utter ruin. Public notoriety. The total dismantling of your life. Approach the wrong man, and you’re absolutely, unequivocally finished. How difficult, how risky, how nerve-rackingly terrifying it must be to walk on that precarious razor edge day in and day out, to live that sort of life and still attempt to read those secret signs every once in a while, signs that Jimmy hasn’t got even the faintest clue about.

 

(His breath comes uneasily at the thought. Had he, not knowing or understanding any of those suggestive nods and winks, inadvertently given Barrow the wrong impression back then? Was that why Barrow had pegged him as someone of … _that_ persuasion? He shivers at the memory of how he had retaliated and almost, almost ruined the man’s life, at the realisation of how close he had come to destroying him. Although he doesn’t know whether the sudden queasiness in his stomach right now is due to _that_ or if it is because of Barrow’s misjudging him in the first place …)

 

All of that is bad, as it is.

 

How much _worse_ must it be to find yourself on the receiving end of that sort of attention as someone who is of _that_ disposition and to have to break it to him that you’re not interested in him.

 

How do you even say no to someone, fully knowing that you are, in fact, _that way_ inclined, but just not drawn to him?

 

You can’t exactly come out and say, _‘Oh, I’m really flattered, but I like my blokes taller and more dark-haired.’_ (Or whatever it is that these chappies look for in one another.)

 

What if the other party gets mortally offended at the rejection and takes revenge? He has got you on toast the moment you so much as let on that he has judged you right, that you are, indeed, possessed of that deviant carnal appetite, but that you just don’t like him back _in_ _that way_. The moment he knows, you’re at his mercy while you still haven’t got a bloody clue as to how he might react.

 

And you can’t just rely on people’s kindness.

 

Hell hath no fury like a potential lover scorned.

 

What if he takes his frustration out on you by reporting you to the police, by telling them that _you_ were the one making advances, instead of the other way round?

 

And the mere insinuation of impropriety would be enough to completely obliterate your life in that case. Even if the police never found evidence that you were trying to chat him up, they would have it in for you from then on, and rumours could and probably _would_ get out. Buggery is a serious offence, after all. Any defamation or allegation to that effect would destroy you. If the police so much as breathed a word of this to anyone, you’d be stuffed good and proper.

 

You cannot take that risk.

 

Under no circumstances can you let on to him that you are of the same ilk. You’ve got to pretend that you haven’t understood his advances and extract yourself from the situation as quickly as possible. You’ve got to play the fool, pretend that you haven’t understood what he’s asking of you and come up with something innocuous to say that (despite its harmlessness) signals to him that the two of you are not alike in _any_ way, shape or form.

 

 _‘What would I say in a situation like this?’_ Jimmy wonders. _‘What would I come up with?’_ He’s usually not very good at thinking on his feet. Would he even be able to come up with something so quickly? Something innocent-sounding (to feign naïve cluelessness), yet also crystal clear (to make sure the other party backs off). What would he have done if Wright had chosen to be overly friendly with _him_ instead of with Barrow?

 

 _‘Panicked and run off like a scalded cat,’_ his brain provides unasked.

 

No, but seriously, what would he have said?

 

 _‘Oh … er … haha … funny you should smile at me like this, Mr Wright … Erm … You know, your eyes are the exact same colour as that simple, gormless girl’s who works as a ticket taker at that cinema in York.’_ (Well, without the ‘simple and gormless’ part, probably.) _‘She’s utterly besotted with me and … erm … I am with her, too. Oh, yeees! … As a matter of fact, we’re going out next week.’_

 

Yes. _That_ is precisely what he would drop casually into the conversation. Casually … yet loudly, clearly, and, if possible, in the presence of witnesses. _That_ should do the trick: An oblique rejection that wouldn’t even acknowledge the indecent offer that brought it on.

 

Although, Jimmy muses, now that everyone knows about Eddie, he could probably also deploy a different strategy and say something along the lines of, _‘Oh, Mr Wright, you always smile at me so nicely. Reminds me of my son’s late mum. ‘Cause, you know, I was married! Very much married! To a girl. A very, er, female girl.’_

 

Yes, that should work. That should get the message through, even to the thickest invert under the sun.

 

But these face-saving exit routes are all but closed for Barrow. The man can’t make up anything like that; it’s all far too easy to verify. Barrow was never married nor engaged, and he never goes out with any girls. It wouldn’t be difficult to find that out. No, he could only pull that off if he were somewhere far away from home, a stranger amongst strangers, where no one knew him.

 

And the only other strategy Jimmy can think of off the top of his head is … to feign a religious calling. Because that is probably a safe bet when it comes to keeping flamboyant daffodils at arm’s length. _That_ should send them running for the hills.

 

It also has the added advantage of being quite difficult to verify:

 

Say you’ve always been Downton’s dapper Don Juan, and prepare for questions to arise about your relations with the fairer sex.

 

Say you’re pious like a tractarian, and watch your foppish interrogator clamp his mouth shut never to be opened in your presence again.

 

Because what exactly is he even supposed to say? It’s not as if he can ask for proof of your religious feelings or anything. You can claim whatever you want and get away with it. Outward signs like church attendance don't mean a thing, and nobody can see into your heart. Nobody knows what you really feel about the whole thing … deep down. And what’s best, people tend not to question other people’s religious feelings … It’s a foolproof method of getting rid of unwanted attention …

 

Or rather … it’s the first thing that springs to mind.

 

(Either that … or that other thing … You could always make something up and drop a not-so-subtle hint that you’re concealing an unmentionable war wound, a wound that has effectively turned you into a monk – if not in the religious, then in the physical sense of the word. That should get even the most persistent pansy off your back within seconds. Unfortunately, it’s also a method that’s not particularly appealing. Who would say such a thing in polite company? And who would want people to think they weren’t in, ahem, proper working order … down _there_.)

 

So, what Barrow did when he alluded to his alleged piety wasn’t, in fact, cruelty towards the hapless valet. It was self-preservation.

 

The man has successfully protected himself, albeit at a high cost.

 

Because – and this is the other thing that Jimmy suddenly realises, inwardly slapping himself for his mental slowness – a strategy like this will always have an unwanted side effect:

 

It will ruin all chances of you ever becoming friends with that other man.

 

It is a clever move, yes. And you won’t have to expose yourself by openly saying no. But once you’ve scared him off like that, that’s it. There’s no going back. And since you can’t exactly say, _‘I’m sorry, old chap. I really like you. Just … not in that way. But we could always stay friends if you like,’_ you’ll kill your chances of befriending him once and for all the moment you’ve deployed your nifty little scare tactic.

 

You’ll lose a potential friend. And there is no middle ground there. If you take the religious approach, you’ll probably manage to protect your reputation, yes. But at the same time, you will most definitely chase away a man who, under different circumstances, could have been a mate, a true friend, an ally even.

 

Hadn’t Jimmy seen it for himself? The two of them, Wright and Barrow, caught up in conversation? And not just once. Talking about this and that. (The paper most likely. And books that Jimmy has never read and probably wouldn’t have understood if he had.) The two of them obviously share common interests.

 

And it’s more than just that. They could have been each other’s confidants. Two, erm, _like-minded_ men, who would have been able to really, _really_ understand each other. Two people suffering the same pain and going through the same struggles.

 

And yet, Barrow found himself with no alternative but to get rid of the other man.

 

And every time he does that, the other person is lost to him forever. No friendship will ever bloom out of that, and time and time again, the man will end up alone. Without a friend to share his burden.

 

The only exception to that iron-clad rule is … Jimmy himself. And even there, it has cost Barrow several cracked ribs, a dangerously bruised face and nerves of steel to ensure, at least, Jimmy’s lukewarm sympathy.

 

 

Jimmy feels his stomach twist with guilt all of a sudden. Because here he is: ordinary, boring Jimmy, who doesn’t really follow the news that closely and whose taste in books leans towards the popular at best. Useless Jimmy, who ran away when Barrow was attacked in his stead under that bridge. Slow ol’ Jimmy, who struggles to understand what Barrow is going through and who’ll never be able to put himself in the man’s shoes, who’ll never be the supportive friend that the man deserves, the shoulder for him to lean on. Difficult Jimmy who, instead, brings problems of his own to the table, that just complicate Barrow’s life. Pathetic Jimmy, who doesn’t know how to be a man and put food on the table for his child, a lousy father who hasn’t got the faintest idea how to take care of his own flesh and blood …

 

And Barrow is stuck with _him_! With him of all people.

 

Not with someone much cleverer, a worthier intellectual sparring partner, someone who’d truly understand him, someone more articulate, more mature, someone who’d have both feet planted firmly on the ground and would know what life’s all about. Someone like Wright.

 

Jimmy gulps uncomfortably at the thought, feeling a creeping sense of shame and inferiority within him and a sudden, sharp pang of inadequacy in his chest. And then, there’s something even more sinister, even more foul: a surge of forbidden jealousy coursing through his veins. But it’s true, isn’t it? The visiting valet is the first one in ages able to hold his own in discussions with the underbutler, quick-witted, charming and intelligent, as he is. Jimmy still recalls the quiet envy he felt as he watched them easily converse with each other about some philosophical oddity or other. And as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he realised back then that there was no way in hell he could ever be that interesting to Barrow.

 

And yet, Barrow had cut Wright off like a festering limb.

 

The relationship between the two men, whom Jimmy had once overheard discussing the idea of numbers ‘existing’ outside of time and space – a ‘thoroughly Platonic concept’ they had called it, much to Jimmy’s surprise – _this_ relationship could never be that: platonic. Because, in this here reality, in this sorry world within time and space, Barrow had to nip any potential affair in the bud. And, with it, everything else that might have bloomed between them instead (friendship, camaraderie, trust) was squelched, as well.

 

And so the two men have ended up neither lovers nor friends; the two men who could have been each other’s greatest allies and confidants, who could have shared each other’s burden, have wound up being strangers, standing outside in a windswept courtyard, pointedly avoiding looking at each other.

 

And _that_ , Jimmy now realises, is how Barrow is doomed.

 

He’s doomed to a loneliness far greater than that of an unwed man who’s never met the right woman to settle down with. He’s doomed to never befriend anyone who shares his fate. Doomed to go through it all alone. Doomed to repel anyone who’d be able to understand his plight or relate to his struggles.

 

It’s not just a life without love; it’s a life without a support system, a life without a friend bearing the same wound on his heart, a life without a companion in suffering. A life of total isolation.

 

And as Jimmy realises all of this, he suddenly feels even more ashamed of his inexplicable behaviour in the kitchen today. Why did he have to do that to a man already scarred by life? What sort of friend is he to do something like this? He doesn’t have an explanation. It just … sort of … came over him. An impulse, and he acted on it.

 

He peers over to the underbutler again.

 

The man is still standing next to him, head thrown back, quietly looking up at the empty heavens above, at the heavens that he must know are impassive, at the heavens that always remain silent and that he has, nonetheless, professed to trust in.

 

It is a cruel joke, really, that, of all the possible scare tactics, the man has chosen to deploy one where he has to feign faith, fully knowing that the Almighty they’ve been raised to believe in wouldn’t so much as spit on him if he were on fire.

 

And it is the ultimate ironic cruelty that even _that_ God is probably non-existent and that both, the pleas for help from the sinners and the prayers of the righteous, asking for those sinners to be taken straight to Hell, will remain unanswered by the unresponsive Heavens above.

 

Barrow’s greyish eyes seem to be tracking the clouds up in the sky, watching the way the wind is piling them up into bizarre, jagged heaps, that are scattered again almost the very moment they are created – like everything in life that fate, nay, chance whips into shape, only to immediately dissolve it again, too fast for man to hold onto, none of it meaning anything, all of it being completely random, with no intent or purpose.

 

Barrow must know this as he stands there, an empty-handed sinner in a deserted church made of wind, under a ceiling of clouds, waiting, bareheaded, for an answer from above that will never come, _knowing_ that it will never come.

 

The man looks so utterly lonely at that moment, with his head leaning against the bare brick wall and his neck exposed, wistfully staring into space, his cool grey gaze a deserted city overgrown with forbidden thoughts and forlorn melodies.

 

It’s at that moment that Jimmy feels the sudden, strange urge to hug Barrow, to throw his arms around him and press his cold nose into that warm white neck, to hold him close and possibly make that cool, controlled sadness disappear from his eyes.

 

It’s a different sadness, a different shade of solitude, Jimmy now knows, different from anyone else’s. Everyone’s alone in this world, scared to live and scared not to, and they will all have to walk the plank in the end and take that plunge into nothingness on their own. But it’s different for Barrow. It’s a screaming darkness that’s much blacker for him than for anyone else, and it’s drowning him while he’s still alive.

 

But Jimmy can’t just hug the man out of the blue; that would be highly inappropriate, not to mention crazy. And so he keeps still, amazed at the way Barrow’s handsome features stand out against the troubled grey sky. Sharp and angular like a marble statue’s. Chiselled and unmoving.

 

Only, the man is more real than any statue could ever be: A statue would never have those barely visible dark circles that he’s got underneath his eyes, where the skin seems bluish and tender, which makes him look more human and somehow even more handsome.

 

Nor would it have the kind of dark shadow that is covering his cheeks even though he is, as always, meticulously clean-shaven. It’s a cool, bluish shadow, shining through his pale skin (as is common for dark-haired men), and it stretches across his jawline, down to the upper part of his shapely neck and the strong curve of his Adam’s apple.

 

 _‘Just as lonely as the first man before he got his helpmate,’_ Jimmy thinks for some reason. _‘Only that he will forever remain without a mate, moreover: without a God – with no tree, no fruit and no snake, and will never get banished from the Garden either because there is no Garden to begin with _… _Only a world that’s formless and void.’_

 

A really, _really_ beautiful sculpture might have a neck such as his, smooth and muscular, Jimmy thinks as he stares at the strong column of Barrow’s throat, but no sculpture in the world would have a warm pulse in the hollow at the base of that throat, that healthy heartbeat that makes Barrow’s skin quiver ever-so-slightly, yet steadily and very visibly … A sculpture’s chest wouldn’t move with each breath of air the way the broad chest underneath that coat does. And no matter how beautiful it might be, a sculpture wouldn’t have lips like these: dark red, slightly chapped by the wind, and so, so human … No, Barrow’s not made of stone. And even though the man’s hair is brilliantined into place, not a single strand getting loose in the wind, Jimmy can sense how human, how real, he is. He can smell his hair and his warm skin, hear every breath the man takes and anticipate every single time his black lashes sweep the top of his cheeks, where the sharp bones threaten to almost break that fair skin slightly reddened by the crisp wind.

 

He looks so real now, so much more real than earlier when they’d been standing in that dark downstairs corridor, locked in their awkward side hug. Not a dreamy black-and-white photograph anymore, but an actual man with pains and fears and needs. Not a dapper male mannequin in some fashion magazine, not some mysterious, handsome stranger straight out of a Hollywood feature, not an idealised drawing found in some girl’s album together with a lock of hair and several pressed flowers in between the pages filled with outré poetry. No, none of that, but a terrifyingly real man: more masculine, more lonely, older and somehow even more handsome. A man made of flesh and blood and sorrows and the need to be loved.

 

Out here, in the harsh light of day, the faint vertical line that Jimmy has spotted earlier between Barrow’s dark brows seems deeper and more pronounced. It’s still fairly faint, all things considered, but it’s not just a vague shadow of a frown anymore that would disappear the moment the man were to relax his face; it’s a sharp, straight little crease, etched permanently between his eyebrows.

 

There are several faint parallel lines on his forehead too, as is typical for a man in his thirties. But what shocks Jimmy as he looks at Barrow, _really_ looks at him, is the lack of creases around his eyes, where the skin is so tender that at least a few fine lines should be showing by now.

 

Jimmy’s seen them a few times, of course: the laughter lines that form around Barrow’s eyes when he smiles. But apparently, they haven’t left a permanent trace on that soft, pale skin, which has remained almost unnaturally smooth – an unreal, eerie sight since it clashes so obviously with the rest of his face.

 

Jimmy’s father always used to say, _‘Folks who frown a lot have creases between their brows; folks who think a lot have creases on their foreheads, and folks who laugh a lot have creases around the eyes.’_

 

To which Jimmy’s mother would always respond by giving a dismissive snort. _‘Ed, stop telling the boy ridiculous stories; he might believe them,’_ she would say, shaking her head in disapproval. (She ended up saying that sentence an awful lot over the years, invariably making his father laugh at the way her strict eyebrow would curve upwards at that.)

 

And then, one day, he actually stopped telling Jimmy his stories: the day war took him from them.

 

He’d never tell him anything again, his stories making way for silence just as the piano in the sitting room went silent forever too.

 

Jimmy doesn’t know if it’s this memory that makes his heart feel so heavy or if it’s the lack of even the faintest lines around Barrow’s eyes, but there’s a weight behind his breastbone heavier than any stone could ever be, heavy in a way that can only be understood by listening to a tune written in F minor, heavy like a bird that’s grown up in a cage and thinks flying to be a disease.

 

One lone black eyelash has fallen onto Barrow’s pale cheek, resting there undetected, undisturbed by the wind. (Waiting to be blown away and tied to a wish, maybe?) The inner corners of the man’s eyes are slightly reddened by the wind, a sight that brings on a sudden rush of odd tender feelings in Jimmy. And there’s a tiny blue vein visible under that too-smooth skin below one of Barrow’s eyes, a little flaw on his otherwise unblemished skin that makes him so human that Jimmy feels his heart breaking for some reason.

 

Human.

 

Real and breathing and so alive.

 

Standing there, leaning against the cold wall, hands buried in his pockets, unmoving as if frozen in time.

 

The urge to hug the man is sudden and sharp, a feeling that seems to sit right inside Jimmy’s throbbing throat, a strong, stabbing pain beneath his Adam’s apple and below his heart, as if a piece of him were slowly being cut out of his body.

 

But he can’t just turn around and hug Barrow. The occasions on which hugs between men are socially acceptable are limited to a rather slim number of well-defined cases:

 

a) When someone you thought lost at sea turns up on your doorstep, alive and kicking and very much _not_ drowned.

 

b) When you’re on the same cricket team, and your teammate surprisingly saves the innings by scoring that one crucial run.

 

c) When you’ve put your month’s wages on _Hooded Warrior_ to finish first, and the steaming, brawny stallion blasts past the finishing line a full length before the second steed comes shooting across it, and you embrace your mate in dazed bliss.

 

(Well, and probably: d) When your name’s Alfred, and you’re a silly, sentimental ninny.)

 

None of this provides Jimmy with a valid excuse to put his arms around Barrow. And so he remains standing there, looking at the other man out of the corner of his eye, gulping silently, uncertain what to do with this painful tenderness that threatens to overwhelm him.

 

“What happened to your hand?”

 

“What?” Jimmy flinches. Even Wright, over at the other end of the courtyard, raises his head for a brief moment, before going back to his valise-cleaning task.

 

“To your knuckle,” Barrow elaborates with a minute jerk of his head in Jimmy’s direction, not even taking his hands out of his coat pockets. “It looks–”

 

“Burnt. I accidentally brushed my hand against the cooker earlier and burnt my knuckle,” Jimmy mumbles, surprised that Barrow would even notice the tiny red spot on his hand. The man hasn’t even turned his head to face Jimmy, and yet somehow he has noticed _this_. “But it’s fine, really. It’s tiny.”

 

“Those are the worst,” Barrow replies, grinning toothily in sympathy.

 

 _‘Just how closely is he watching me, anyway?’_ Jimmy wonders. _‘Seriously, is there anything that escapes this man? What is this? Why does it feel as though he’d notice if even the slightest thing about me were out of place? The smallest scratch or bruise_ … _As though he’d notice if someone harmed so much as a hair on my head. Is he feeling protective of m– Nonsense!_ … _But he just really does have his eyes everywhere, doesn’t he?’_

 

Those astute eyes that are fully awake even when heavy-lidded and half-closed …  

 

“It’s just that you were fidgeting,” Barrow interrupts Jimmy’s train of thought in a placating voice. “You kept rubbing the back of your hand on your trouser leg, which _really_ won’t help with the burn.”

 

Jimmy frowns. “It’s just– … I’m still … ”

 

“Don’t be nervous. It’ll all work out. Your son, the old vicarage, Carson, the family.” Barrow turns his face to look directly at Jimmy, the back of his head still leaning against the wall. “Stop worrying,” he adds in a surprisingly soft voice and, for a moment, his greyish blue eyes seem to flick up to Jimmy’s forehead where Jimmy can feel the wind play with his curls.

 

 _‘Drat. Should have tamed them with as much brilliantine as Barrow,’_ Jimmy thinks, just as the other man’s gaze seems to soften at the sight of the wind thrusting its cool fingers into Jimmy’s hair to ruffle it up.

 

“We can do it; I promise,” Barrow adds quietly. And Jimmy could swear that, for a second, there’s a warm smile in the man’s eyes as they follow the movement of Jimmy’s curls in the air.

 

“Right …” Jimmy mumbles, quickly sucking on his burnt knuckle and blowing on it in concentration because he isn’t sure where to look or what to do.

 

Barrow clears his throat. “So … how’s Alfred holding up?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Well, he’s your best mate; this whole revelation about you having a son must affect him too.”

 

 _‘He’s not my best mate. You are,’_ Jimmy protests inwardly. (Odd how this thought’s just crept up on him there. A few weeks ago, it would’ve been literally unthinkable. And now, it's just there – like an unmovable, unshakable mountain.)

 

Outwardly, he just shrugs.

 

“He’s probably still in shock, isn’t he?” Barrow enquires.

 

“How should I know?!” Jimmy huffs, then remembers what he’s been told about reining in his temper and adds more calmly, “I mean … I mean … Who knows what goes on in Alfred’s brain anyway, right?”

 

Barrow throws him a disbelieving look at that. “Really? Alfred doesn’t strike me as such a mystery. He seems to be a reasonably straightforward lad, doesn’t he?”

 

“Oh, God knows what’s going on in that ginger head of his! If there’s even enough oxygen in the air up there, that is.”

 

“The oxygen _up here_ is just fine, thank you,” Barrow states slowly, faux indignation in his voice as he visibly struggles to suppress a grin, looking down on Jimmy …

 

… who, in turn, feels a strong urge to stick out his tongue at the other man as he tilts his head up to look him in the eye. But then he just smiles.

 

“Well, Alfred was a bit … odd, I suppose,” he admits. “Earlier when we were serving luncheon upstairs … Oh, and, yes, he said he wanted to talk to me about something. Tonight in our room. But I’ve got no idea what this is about.”

 

As a matter of fact, Jimmy would gladly smack the other footman for this. Whatever ridiculous drama Alfred wants to have a whinge about, it’ll definitely be less interesting than what Jimmy will miss out on because of it: There aren’t that many nights left before Barrow is scheduled to move out, and any evening that Jimmy doesn’t spend in the man’s company, playing the piano for him or chatting with him, is an evening lost. Their nights are numbered, and it feels as though Alfred is stealing one of these precious nights for his own selfish reasons, without Jimmy even being able to voice his objection to that.

 

“So, I won’t see you tonight in the servants’ hall, then?” Barrow asks, and for a moment, Jimmy thinks there’s the same hint of regret in the man’s voice that Jimmy has just felt.

 

Jimmy shakes his head.

 

The bite of the wind on his burnt hand feels worse all of a sudden, sharp and stinging. “God knows why this is so important to him all of a sudden,” he chunters. “Alfred can be so obnoxious sometimes. I’m not sure what’s bitten him this time.”

 

“He’ll come round. Give him time. He probably just has to get used to the idea of you being a father. I’m sure he’ll be all right with it in the end. He’s a good lad.”

 

 _‘A ‘good lad’ who called the police on you, you know,’_ Jimmy grumbles inwardly.

 

But before he can say anything, the door to the courtyard creaks open again, revealing a befuddled-looking Mr Molesley.

 

 _‘Six-four chord … aaand … action,’_ Jimmy thinks, sarcastically.

 

“Oh … He-hello!” Molesley exclaims as he spots the two of them. He’s sporting one of his signature perplexed, yet genuine smiles.

 

Then he seems to discover a more worthwhile target, though, and makes a beeline for Wright, who, brush in hand, head bowed over a suitcase, doesn’t manage to take flight in time.

 

“And thus the cadenza unfurls,” Jimmy mutters between his teeth.

 

“Well, this should be fun to watch,” Barrow says at the same time.

 

And they both give an amused little snigger at that.

 

The question of why Molesley is even still with them, here at Downton, is one of those puzzles that Jimmy prides himself on having solved on his own, without Barrow’s help.

 

At first, Jimmy had thought Molesley would have to leave Downton right after Matthew Crawley’s funeral. But, as it turned out later on, a valet’s duties didn’t just suddenly end with the unfortunate demise of his employer. Before there could be any talk of leaving, poor old Molesley had to sort through Sir Matthew’s entire wardrobe: some clothes were to be given away to charity, others were to be discarded, and yet others were to be put aside for mending or cleaning before they could be altered and refitted for Mr Branson (an outcome that the former chauffeur fought tooth and nail, but was ultimately unable to prevent).

 

It took Molesley weeks to complete all of these tasks – mainly because the whole process was complicated by Lady Mary’s presence. Upon return from hospital, the distraught woman, who didn’t want anything to do with her newborn son, had locked herself into her late husband’s dressing room to prevent Molesley from throwing out any of the man’s clothes. If it hadn’t been for Anna, the whole unfortunate episode would have ended with Jimmy and Alfred breaking down the door to the sound of the maids’ suppressed sobs, Lady Grantham’s concerned murmur and Mr Carson’s muttering and hand-wringing. It had been Anna who had managed to talk some sense into Lady Mary by kneeling down in front of the locked door and pleading with her through the keyhole.

 

The tug-of-war over Matthew Crawley’s clothes, however, raged on even after the distressed young widow had left the dressing room, making Molesley’s work exceedingly tedious. One time, the poor valet appeared in the servants’ hall with a torn shirt in his hand and a laceration on his high forehead. (As it turned out, Lady Mary had physically fought him and even thrown a coat hanger at his head in a fit of hysteria – all because she didn’t want to part with her husband’s shirt.) Another time, Molesley found about half a dozen old trilby hats, a pair of worn Derby shoes, and one lone leather glove back in the very dressing room from which he had removed them just a day prior to that. Apparently, a deeply upset Lady Mary had fished the filthy items out of the rubbish bin and put them back in the polished mahogany wardrobe upstairs.

 

In short, the young woman was grieving in a way that made Jimmy feel more than just a little bit guilty. Because _that_ right there was how you were meant to mourn the love of your life.

 

Eventually, Lady Mary lost all the energy to fight, though. One afternoon, Lord Grantham found his daughter, collapsed on the stairs of the entrance hall, fast asleep, dried tear tracks lining her pale cheeks. Even in her sleep, the young widow was clutching one of Sir Matthew’s old waistcoats to her bosom.

 

Molesley and Branson carried her back to her room under Carson’s strict supervision. (Barrow was still healing at that point and wasn’t allowed to do any heavy lifting, and Jimmy and Alfred were never asked. Apparently, Carson didn’t trust them to be able to take care of it quietly and without further upsetting the distressed young woman.)

 

In any case, that had been the last time anyone had seen Lady Mary leave her room.

 

Molesley eventually finished sorting through Matthew Crawley’s earthly possessions, and everyone expected him to leave. But then something odd happened, something highly unusual and unexpected: Mr Branson hired him as a valet.

 

That in itself would have been enough to make them all believe the world was turning upside down. (Mr Barrow, his face still covered in purplish, yellowing bruises, joked that soon the rivers would start to flow uphill, sheep would devour wolves and dolphins would climb mountains.) But that wasn’t even the craziest part of the story.

 

A few days after Molesley had allegedly started working for Mr Branson, Jimmy made a strange discovery: The Irishman’s appearance and attire hadn’t changed one bit. He still managed to turn up at dinner with his shirt buttoned up incorrectly or one of his shoes unlaced on two days out of three. What the devil was Molesley doing? Attending to Branson with his eyes closed? While he was tap dancing? In a drunken stupor? Because that was what it looked like. (Actually, Jimmy wouldn’t have put that past Molesley.)

 

Then, one quiet, rainy afternoon, Jimmy walked in on Molesley in the boot room, where the man was sitting, at least three different sewing needles clamped between his teeth, cutting a length of thread from a spool, a little stuffed bear on his knee, his livery covered in sawdust. Apparently, the bear’s stuffing was leaking from a rip in the plush fabric where one of its fluffy brown ears had come loose.

 

That was how Jimmy found out.

 

He understood it the moment he saw the valet’s nimble fingers stitch that torn toy back together, understood it when he heard him mutter, “Well, what can you do? If she likes me, she likes me,” with that usual half-happy, half-sad Pierrot-like smile of his.

 

That was how Jimmy found out about it.

 

He’s known it ever since.

 

Well, it’s certainly not for Jimmy to judge a girl like little Miss Sybbie for having taken a shine to the man. After all, Molesley _is_ a bit of a clown; it’s understandable why children like him. But it still doesn’t sit right with Jimmy. The man _pretends_ to be a valet for Mr Branson when, in reality, he’s just one bottle of milk and a frilly apron away from being the world’s ugliest nanny. This just can’t be right, can it?

 

The most fascinating fact is how willingly everyone turns a blind eye to this charade. Everyone _knows_ what goes on in the nursery upstairs: that Molesley sings _‘The Grand Old Duke of York’_ with Miss Sybbie, that he reads her fairy tales, mimics the voices of all her different dolls and goes on walks with her in her pram, looking like the world’s clumsiest, yet happiest uncle, that he always tells Mrs Patmore and Daisy how the little girl likes her porridge and crows over whatever new word she’s learnt that day. Everyone knows. But no one brings it up. Even Mr Carson pretends to believe that Molesley is still here as a valet even though, by now, it has become blatantly obvious that that’s not the case.

 

Time and time again, Jimmy is just astounded by how limitless people’s capacity for ignoring uncomfortable truths can be, how willing they all are to tune out a disturbing reality for the sake of peace and quiet.

 

Jimmy’s observation that Mr Branson still wanders about in badly ironed shirts and unbrushed jackets clearly points to the fact that the man still dresses himself and never intended to hire a valet in the first place. It was probably his little daughter who intervened in some way. Rumour has it that Molesley was the only one who could make her stop crying – by pulling funny faces, gurning and sticking out his tongue. Whatever it was, something must have convinced Branson to keep Molesley on as a male nanny of sorts.

 

And somehow, this just doesn’t sit right with Jimmy. The fact that Molesley is good with children and that Miss Sybbie likes him so much shouldn’t matter; it’s not a man’s job, full stop. Men aren’t meant to be nurturing; it’s not in their nature. Their purpose is to feed and protect their families.

 

Now, Jimmy is no Mr Carson; it’s not like he’s mentally stuck in the Middle Ages, thank you very much.

 

Still, there are some things in nature that are ordered to an end and knocking them down would disrupt that order, wouldn’t it? Women have their roles, and men shouldn’t poke their noses where they don’t belong. The same way that women shouldn’t step into men’s roles. There’s nothing old-fashioned about this. That’s just the way things are and have always been. And things that are self-evident and have always held true shouldn’t just be changed for the sake of change.

 

Yes, men and women are equal, but they’re not the same. And they shouldn’t be competing. Because their roles aren’t meant to be competitive; they are complementary. Complementary and cooperative. They should be combined for each sex to be able to realise its full potential, yet also remain strictly segregated, each in its own sphere of activity and responsibility.

 

And yet, even though Jimmy is convinced of this, he still doesn’t dare to bring it up in Barrow’s presence.

 

The underbutler would, no doubt, find fault with Jimmy’s theory, making him out to be an idiot for his inability to come up with counter-arguments as quickly as Barrow can, for being unable to argue his point as eloquently and adroitly as Barrow. The man would most likely make some sardonic remark out of the corner of his far-too perfect mouth and thus tear Jimmy’s whole argument to shreds just for the hell of it. Then he’d smile slyly and watch Jimmy shuffle his feet and open and close his mouth like a fish out of water, unable to put words to his thoughts. It’s so incredibly frustrating to argue with Barrow – especially when you're convinced that you're right, but can’t rebut his arguments. The man invariably employs sarcasm and manages to make you feel silly and ridiculous in no time at all. He seems to enjoy disagreeing with people, leaving them flustered and at a loss for words – just because he can.

 

No, but this time Jimmy is sure he’s right. Molesley _should_ have had the decency to decline a job such as this. If they let men cradle infants and sing them lullabies and nursery rhymes, who’s to say women won’t start to demand all manner of outrageous things, too. Like being allowed to fight in combat or work as a carpenter.

 

Yes, Jimmy is for equality and all that, but that doesn’t mean the natural order of things should be reversed and twisted into something awful. If men like Molesley don’t stand their ground and just give up on trying to be manly and strong, who’s to say women won’t try to become soldiers or roofers or plumbers or brickies or chauffeurs (there are enough bloody motorcar accidents happening around the country, as it is; no need to add to their numbers) or solicitors or barristers or Cabinet ministers or, Heaven forbid, doctors (because no man should be forced to undress in front of a woman; that’s just unnatural).

 

Jimmy throws Barrow a look out of the corner of his eye. God only knows what the man would say if Jimmy shared any of these thoughts with him. He would, no doubt, manage to make Jimmy’s perfectly reasonable, common-sense points of view sound like ridiculous tosh of the highest order and turn the principles of right and wrong on their heads the way he is wont to do – all just because he’s far too clever for his own good.

 

Jimmy can almost hear him:

 

 _‘How does it hurt anyone if Molesley looks after Branson’s daughter?’_ Barrow would ask.

 

And Jimmy would reply with a sigh of exasperation, _‘That’s not the bloody point, and you know it. Whether it hurts anyone or not is irrelevant. It flies in the face of reason and common decency, undermining all societal norms. You can’t build a society based on the questionable moral of ‘Oh, well, at least we’re not hurting anyone,’ without society’s fabric starting to unravel and everyone beginning to behave immorally. The principles of right and wrong are absolute, Mr Barrow.’_

 

But somehow, Barrow would still manage to win that argument and make Jimmy look like some antediluvian fossil – or worse still: like Mr Carson.

 

He would laugh at Jimmy haughtily, making it seem as though _Jimmy_ were the ridiculously obtuse one here. And he’d do it all with an effortless smile and an ironically raised eyebrow whilst sucking on one of his stupid cigarettes with those stupid, _stupid_ red lips.

 

This is what makes reasoning with Barrow so pointless. (Sometimes, Jimmy wonders how the man can be so insufferable and loveable at the same time. But with Barrow, all bets are off, Jimmy thinks with a long-suffering sigh, shaking his head to himself.)

 

It would probably all end with Barrow announcing that Lady Sybil’s child should get anything, absolutely anything, she wants – even if that ‘thing’ is a balding old buffoon for a nanny.

 

 _‘Because Heaven forbid we don’t anticipate the girl’s every wish,’_ Jimmy thinks with an inward smile. _‘Barrow would have us all hanged, drawn and quartered.’_ The otherwise oh-so-rational Mister There-are-no-absolutes can get surprisingly sentimental when said girl is brought up in discussion.

 

So, no, Jimmy doesn’t voice his thoughts on the matter of Molesley’s new unofficial position here at Downton and just stares at the valet-turned-nanny through squinted eyes, watching the man converse with a less than enthusiastic Mr Wright.

 

Lord Dullop’s man doesn’t appear too keen on chatting with the other ‘valet’, which doesn’t seem to faze Molesley in the slightest. The garrulous man just keeps waffling on as if there were no tomorrow, launching into a lengthy and voluble explanation of something that Jimmy can’t quite make out.

 

“I would feel sorry for Wright if it weren’t so hilarious to watch him squirm,” Jimmy whispers in Barrow’s direction.

 

The underbutler gives him a lopsided grin at that. “Comedy live on stage, and we’ve got front-row seats.”

 

At that moment, Molesley starts to wildly flap and flail his arms in mid-conversation, as if to illustrate some point he’s just made to the bewildered valet.

 

“I’ll bet you anything they’re talking about the village cricket match,” Barrow whispers.

 

“Or the mating display of very clumsy birds,” Jimmy snorts, watching Molesley wave his arms about like a windmill.

 

Even from across the courtyard, Jimmy can see that Wright’s eyebrows have shot up in surprise at the eccentric outburst before him. Then his bespectacled eyes seem to dart from Molesley over to where Barrow and Jimmy are standing and back again, as if to say, _‘Are you seeing this too?’_

 

Jimmy gives Wright a cautious little nod and a grin.

 

It’s at this point that Molesley starts to hop around on one foot, patting his head and rubbing his stomach.

 

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Jimmy comments dryly.

 

But before Barrow can say anything, Molesley stops and starts to pull up one of his trouser legs, revealing a pair of bright yellow socks, his sock suspenders and several inches of pasty, hairy calf, all while chattering on about something.

 

“How now, Malvolio,” Barrow says with a low chuckle.

 

“Huh?” Jimmy turns to his friend again.

 

“Nothing. Just something from a personal favourite of mine.”

 

But before Jimmy can enquire what Barrow means by that, the door to the courtyard opens a third time, revealing a slightly out-of-breath Anna.

 

“Ah, Jimmy, there you are. Mr Carson is looking for you,” she calls out across the courtyard.

 

Oh, great.

 

“He wants you to serve tea upstairs.”

 

“What, already?” Jimmy protests. “Isn’t it a bit early for that yet? … Wait, I thought the family wanted to drive into York today.”

 

“The Dowager has decided to pay Lord Grantham a surprise visit,” Anna replies. “Mr Carson wants you to serve the two of them tea in the library.”

 

Jimmy lets out a frustrated sigh. “Why me?”

 

He can almost feel the sharp look Barrow shoots him from the side. It’s as if the underbutler wants to say, _‘What did I tell you about arguing with the maids? No talking back to anyone, James!’_

 

“Why can’t Alfred do it?” Jimmy laments nonetheless.

 

Anna shrugs her little shoulders. “I suppose Alfred has other tasks to attend to.”

 

“Oh, I bet he has. Like falling asleep in the loo again,” Jimmy huffs.

 

“Mr Carson specifically asked for you,” Anna replies with a helpless smile.

 

“What a surprise!” Jimmy mutters under his breath. To call Carson a pain in the backside would be the understatement of the year.

 

 _‘Should have known telling him about Eddie would come at a cost. He’s already making sure he works me harder than Alfred,’_ Jimmy seethes inwardly. _‘And I need that like a hole in the head_ … _Or a burnt knuckle, for that matter. Or a piece of carrot between the teeth.’_

 

“Well, if Mr Carson needs you, then it’s probably urgent, Jimmy,” Molesley adds his two pennies’ worth from across the courtyard, sounding so genuinely helpful and sincere that Jimmy is all but ready to slap him upside the head.

 

“Oh, what do you care?!” Jimmy snaps.

 

“Just trying to help,” Molesley offers, smiling on, undeterred.

 

At least the man’s pulled down his trouser leg again. Jimmy still sees yellow dots dancing in front of his eyes when he so much as _thinks_ about those socks.

  
“Well, nobody’s asked you to,” he bites out, then quickly ducks his head when he hears Barrow draw a sharp breath. “I’m going, I’m going,” Jimmy mutters, throwing his hands up in defeat. “Anna? Have you got a toothpick, by any chance?”

 

To be continued


End file.
